The Spinner and the Slipper

by Camryn Lockhart

  “My good old mother,” said a voice that, despite its trembling excitement, remained completely steeped in courtly courtesy. “Tell me, have you seen . . .”

  The voice trailed off. Grandmem, who disliked being called “my good old mother” even by her own son, glared up at the horseman. He boasted a head of straw-colored hair all tumbled about in fashionable curls. His face was young and too oddly angular to be considered quite handsome, though he was eye-catching in his way.

  Most noteworthy was the manner in which he sat there on his tall horse, frowning, his mouth still open.

  Grandmem recognized him at once: the Honorable Benedict de Cœur of Canneberges, only son of the Marquis and Marquise de Canneberges. Come home from university for the winter due to illness, if she recalled the farmer gossips correctly. She regarded the young fellow through one eye, the other squinted shut. She had been around long enough to learn a thing or two about reading faces and expressions. And she could see that, young lordling though he was, Benedict was deeply embarrassed.

  “Um,” he said, trying to find words that would not come.

  “If you’re wondering,” said Grandmem, “if I saw an invisible breeze blow by, carrying paper-bits behind it, I did. I did, yes. Not two minutes ago. And it was laughing, yes, like a very fiend.”

  “You did?” The young scholar brightened considerably. Which is to say, his pale face flushed an impressive crimson. “Which way did it go?”

  “Up yonder, toward the Oakwood,” said Grandmem, indicating with a nod of her head. “You’ll be knowing, being the great big lord-man you are, that it is bad luck to chase after laughing breezes?”

  But Benedict had no time for luck, be it good or bad. He fumbled in his pocket for a coin, found none, and blushed again with still greater embarrassment. Grandmem could have rolled her eyes, but no one would have seen them behind all her wrinkles, so she didn’t bother.

  “Away with you now,” she said, as though she were the lady and he the serf dismissed at her word. “Away, and may you find a luck to your liking.”

  The young lord tipped his hat and urged his tall horse onward up the trail after the wind and, though he did not know it, after Heloise as well.

  Grandmem watched him go. Then she said, “Hmmm.”

  And continued on her way.

  It is amazing what a good rage and a good run can do to return a sense of order and reasonableness to a mind disturbed. By the time Heloise, panting and gasping at the painful stitch in her side, reached the outermost fringes of the Oakwood, she had nearly convinced herself that what she had thought she’d seen in the mirror was nothing at all. Purely dreamed up. Imagined. Fancied. Nonsense, really.

  Besides, even if by some strange twist of madness she truly had seen her reflection wink while she herself was wide-eyed and staring—which, pfffsh, was ridiculous—did it really matter? Evette was still the most obnoxious and bothersome person ever to walk the fields of Canneberges; and it was surely far more worthwhile to spend a morning contemplating the various grievances inflicted by a perfect sister than worrying about reflections, winking or otherwise.

  So Heloise paused a moment just within the shadows of the forest, bent over with her hands (one clutching the long handle of her peeling knife) on her knees, waiting until the stitch in her side eased. Despite the pain, she couldn’t repress the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth even as her brow continued to frown. The sight of Evette with pottage on her face, her jaw dropped, her eyes tightly squeezed shut, her scream filling the cottage—that was a memory to treasure indeed! It was a rare day that saw Evette even remotely discomfited.

  Heloise’s smile soon vanished, however, as she straightened up and entered the Oakwood. The first faint notes of what would soon swell into a full chorus of shame already played in the back of her mind. After all, Evette hadn’t done anything so terribly wrong. She was just . . . perfect, sweet, well-meaning, and kind-hearted. She was just herself.

  “And you, Heloise, are a beast,” Heloise muttered. By now her frown was quite severe and, though she did not know it, she looked like a wrinkle-free reflection of her stern-faced grandmother in that moment.

  As she proceeded into the forest, she caught her wild hair in both hands, parted it down the middle, and tied it in braids. It was so thick that each braid was fatter than her own wrist. Considering Evette’s kindly suggestions over breakfast, she almost wound them up on top of her head like a young woman should. But no. She may be a beast; but she was her own beast, and let no one try to tell her otherwise! She had no hairpins on her anyway.

  With this decision firmly in mind, she chose the left-hand trail into deeper Oakwood and set off at a leisurely stride, her basket bouncing on her hip. Oakwood was not so called because it was made up entirely of oaks, nor indeed were oaks the most prominent tree to be found there. But they were the most important tree, and few people ventured into the wood above the south-end except to gather oak bark. The prosperity of Canneberges depended on oak bark, which could be boiled down for its strong tannins, the best and least-smelly fixative known for dying cloth. Canneberges estate was famous throughout the kingdom—and kingdoms beyond—for its bolts of rich red linen.

  Heloise, as one of the primary bark-gatherers of the south-end, was an essential part of that fame.

  “Heloise Oakwoman,” she whispered to herself as she approached the first tall oak in her path. Oakwoman would be an excellent name for her, a name with standing completely distinct from her father’s. But it was unlikely at best, and she knew it. No one was called Oakwoman. It wasn’t how things were done.

  Heloise dropped her basket among the roots, tucked her long skirts into her belt, and, knife gripped between her teeth, climbed into the lower branches of the oak. As she went she growled a different name around the knife: “Heloise Pigman.”

  Because, truth be told, that name was much more likely. In another few years—very few now, though she rarely allowed herself to think about it—she, like Evette, would be pushed, prodded, and eventually matched up with some farmer or dyer or pig-keeper lad. Then she would take on his name. His standing.

  “Wouldn’t you just hate to be a Pigman?” Heloise had asked her sister not many weeks ago while the two of them, bundled warmly against the last of the winter snows, made their way across the yard to feed Gutrund the sow.

  Evette, reaching into the pen to scratch Gutrund behind the ear just where she liked it, had smiled sweetly. “Pigs are important,” she’d said. “And the pig-keepers up at the Great House are respectable men of good standing.”

  Heloise made a face. “Respectable or not, they stink worse than Gutrund here. Whenever Gy Pigman comes calling, it’s all I can do not to pinch my nose before he’s stepped over the threshold!”

  Evette, still smiling, dropped her eyes demurely. Gy Pigman was one of her many and most ardent suitors. “You know, Heloise,” she said then, “we don’t have the right to be as choosy as all that.”

  Heloise had frowned at this statement. Hers was a temperament prone to scowls, and the oncoming advent of adulthood combined with her sister’s never-ending practicality only dampened the little good humor with which nature had deemed fit to grace her. “Then you marry Gy if you must,” she’d declared, dumping the table scraps and root vegetables so quickly that they slopped over the edge of Gutrund’s trough. “You marry him, because if you don’t, he might come calling on me next. And I wouldn’t have him for all Madame de Cœur’s silks and jewels!”

  “Oh, Heloise,” said Evette, “I wouldn’t worry. I doubt very much Gy will ever want to come calling on you.”

  Anyone else delivering such a line would have deserved—and likely received—a smack in the face. Not Evette. She spoke it with the utmost sincerity, truly intending to comfort her sister.

  It was unbearable.

  So Heloise had whirled about, empty slop-bucket swinging, and stomped back to the cottage. Evette, her smile never wavering, had followed in silence behind. After all, if you w
ere a respectable young woman, you must marry a respectable young man, take his name, assume his standing, and raise his children. It was how things were done. Especially by the daughters of flax farmers.

  These thoughts and memories crowded in stormy lines between Heloise’s brows even as she perched on the lowest branches of the obliging oak. But she couldn’t bear to consider them long, so she shook her head and concentrated instead on the task before her.

  One searching hand ran over the trunk, seeking old scars. There were a few, but not many; Heloise was always careful not to take too much bark from any one tree. She climbed higher to a place where the tree had not yet been cut. There, her legs wrapped tightly about a thick branch, she set to work peeling long strips of bark. This was the best time of year for harvesting oak bark, just as the sap began to rise. Using the technique her father had taught her, she gently stripped away long peels, which she dropped to lie in curls among the roots below, waiting to be gathered. She worked efficiently, ignoring the numbness in her fingers and toes, glad for a task to occupy her hands. Usually she brought along Clovis or Clotaire to gather for her, but she was just as happy to be alone today.

  “Heloise Pigman,” she muttered as she worked. “That’s a person I never want to meet.” She wouldn’t either. Not if she could help it.

  Yet this repulsive version of herself danced before her vision like the phantom of a future destiny. Determined to drive it away, Heloise started to hum.

  It was an odd little tune she hummed. Indeed, it might be a stretch to call it a tune, at least by mortal standards. With all of the charming folksongs common to that region, Heloise could have entertained herself with quite a lovely personal concert. But she never thought to hum any of those songs. Only one tune could possibly be hummed at this time of year by the people of Canneberges . . .

  Now, when the snows were melted away . . .

  Now, when the sap began to rise . . .

  Now, when in three days’ time the sun would set upon the last day of winter and rise upon the first of spring, only one song echoed in the heart of any man, woman, or child of Canneberges. The old, old song. The sacred song.

  Heloise hummed Le Sacre.

  But it was not a song meant for humming. It began simply enough, but as it progressed, it changed. And as it changed, it grew. Heloise could hear it in her head even as she’d heard it every year since before she could remember—the soulful moan of a shawm like the sound of a tree’s old spirit come to life, and the higher sighing of pipes offset by beating tabors. Then, rolling in like thunder from the sea, the much deeper boom of the copper timpani, a sound she could never hope to produce in her small throat.

  Once all of these joined together and built to a crisis point, suddenly they ceased, and the solo voice of a young maid rose up in the darkness. She sang alone at first, but soon other voices joined hers and swelled into a great ensemble of sound, voices singing in a language unknown to anyone in Canneberges yet as much a part of their lives and culture as the flax and the cranberries they sowed and harvested each year.

  Heloise hummed the opening melody. In place of the tabors and timpani, she tapped out rhythms on the oak branch and trunk. Then, after a breathless moment of silence, she opened her mouth and sang the strange, strange words:

  “Cianenso

  Nive nur norum.

  Nive noar—garph, gug! Blegh!”

  So her singing ended in a fit of coughing as the melody soared out of her range. She grimaced, adjusted her grip on her peeling knife, and began the song again an octave lower. Nevertheless, when she came to the high-soaring third line she coughed again, unable to get the incomprehensible words out.

  Oh well. She was only fourteen. She had four years to practice before she would be obliged to sing Le Sacre in public and dance with the maidens of the estate.

  Heloise began to sing again, sighing out the first word, “Cianensoooooooo.” It always amazed her how much passion she could put into her voice when no one was listening.

  At least, no one so far as she knew.

  Across from the oak tree in which Heloise worked stood a dark, heavily shrouded pine. This was a solemn tree with no musicality in its limbs, yet at the sound of Heloise’s halting voice a sudden interest seemed to rise up from the shadows beneath it. Branches moved ever so slightly.

  And something secret gazed out.

  After humming the first haunting notes faster the third time around—like a horse speeding up before it leaped the fence—Heloise opened her mouth and tried the strange words again. “Cianenso!” she belted out.

  From within the shadows of the pine, a voice echoed hers: “Cianenso.”

  This voice was so profoundly deep that Heloise could not hear its singing over her own vocalizations. But when she came to that tricky third line and once more broke off in coughing, the second voice continued without her:

  “Nive noar-ciu, lysa-ciu.

  Nivee mher

  Nivien nur jurar

  Nou iran-an!”

  Heloise, one hand clutching her knife, the other gently guiding the newest strip of peeled bark, froze. Her eyes rounded, staring at the trunk before her. In that moment she was aware of every curl of bark, every splotch of lichen, every rough contour. Everything struck her sight with such heightened awareness of being that she would have been overwhelmed . . .

  . . . except that every other sense of her body suddenly fixated on the sound behind her.

  The voice sang on, as strange as the words being sung. So strange, so deep, so wild, and so dangerous that it seemed to somehow belong with the words, as though each were a part of the others: words and voice and melody.

  But worst of all . . . or best . . . or most dreadful . . . Heloise suddenly understood what was being sung. For the words, though they remained the same upon her ear, plunged down inside her head and twisted, taking on new shapes, new sounds, new colors, taking on form and substance that she could suddenly comprehend. She heard the voice in the shadows behind her singing:

  “Night so hopeless and so pure.

  Evening comes to promise

  All my children

  Of a deeper night.”

  The voice faded away slowly, like the gentle fading of darkness into dawn. Then all was still.

  If I think about it too long, I won’t ever move again, Heloise thought. Next she thought: You’re already thinking too much. Stop it at once.

  Then she thought: You’re still doing it.

  With a wrench of her spirit far more abrupt than any movement of her limbs or muscles, she turned around. The branch she sat on swayed, its bare twigs scraping against one another. She stared at the fir tree behind her. The sound had come from that tree. But who had sung? The tree? No. She’d never heard a tree speak, much less sing, though she’d listened often enough just in case. And even if, by some chance, trees did sing, she was quite certain no tree ever sounded that dark. That feral.

  That bloodthirsty.

  Stop it, she told herself. Stop thinking. Do something!

  Few options came to mind, however. She could either stay where she was in the tree, hoping whatever had sung those words—whatever had painted those sensations in her brain—couldn’t climb trees, or . . .

  Evette would never have done what Heloise did next. Evette would have stayed put and possibly tried to cajole the secret lurker out of hiding with the force of her own persuasive sweetness. She would then have reasoned with it until, unable to bear one more word of reasonableness, it either ate her or ran away forever.

  But Heloise was not Evette.

  She turned her knife blade-down and dropped it carefully between the branches. The blade plunged into a mossy patch between roots, the handle vibrating gently on impact. Scarcely taking her eyes from the fir tree, Heloise swung herself down, branch by branch. Her braids caught on bits of twig, but she pulled them free and kept descending. Before dropping to the ground from the last branch she may have hesitated, wiped nervous sweat from her lip, and stared extra
hard at the shadows under that tree. But she would never have admitted this to a soul.

  After landing in a crouch on the hard forest floor, Heloise paused only long enough to draw a breath before snatching up her knife. Slowly she rose and stepped carefully toward the fir tree, which grew from the bottom of a ditch on the far side of the path, its lowest needle-veiled branches brushing the earth to create a perfect, cave-like hiding place.

  Heloise, her body sideways to make the smallest target possible, her knife upraised and poised to plunge, drew near. As she approached, her movements slowed as though she pressed against some invisible force. But she didn’t stop. One cold step at a time, she progressed.

  Something was under there. Something . . . She could hear it breathing. Something big.

  Something too big to fit in that small space.

  Something impossible.

  She tried to swallow, but her mouth and throat were too dry. Her eyes narrowed beneath her frowning brow, as though she could somehow force them to see the un-seeable.

  If you run away, it will pounce on you from behind, she thought. So it’s a good thing you’re not thinking about running away. Absolutely.

  She no longer breathed. Her lungs were too tight to allow for breath. But it was still breathing. Deep, deep breaths.

  “Who—who is there?” Heloise said.

  Even as the words left her mouth, a sudden gust of wind caught them up, whirled to the top of a tall tree, and plunged back down to the forest floor. Heloise, her braids and skirts billowing in that wind, glanced after it. Realizing her mistake at once, she forced herself to look back at the fir tree. Its branches shivered as though something had just rushed out from under it. But nothing could be seen, no shadow, no form.

  The heavy presence she had sensed only moments ago was gone.

  The wind, meanwhile, was very present, and it burst out laughing, an insane, high laugh. Heloise, furious, brandished her knife, but what could a knife do against a wind? As it gusted in her face, tugging at her braids again, she slashed, but to no avail. The wind only laughed harder.