Brunt Boggart

by David Greygoose

  Snuffwidget scooped out a hole in the moist rich soil and dropped in the bright red seed as the morning sun rose high in the sky and peered down over his shoulder. He scattered warm earth on top of the seed and patted it flat with the palm of his hand. Then he fetched a can and watered it and trod the soft mulch down. And the warm wind blew and the sweet rain fell and the sun gazed down every day as Snuffwidget tended his seed, every moment he could spare away from the bottles and the barrels and the brewing.

  Still they would come, the mothers and the little’uns for a pennyworth of gobstopper and a taste of lemonade. And the Crowdancers would stop by too on their way to the Echo Field. He was always pleased to see them but he wished that they would leave so that he could go out into his garden and see if the seed had started to grow. Finally they drifted off to the beat of the distant drum.

  Moonpetal waited behind.

  “Why don’t you come with us, Snuffwidget? Come back to the Fever Tree. You’ve only tasted the poppies once. Come and dance and lay down with us.”

  She smoothed her skirt and fluttered her eyes, but Snuffwidget looked away.

  “Not today, Moonpetal,” he said.

  Moonpetal sighed and planted a playful kiss on Snuffwidget’s cheek, then hurried away to catch up with Scarum and all the other dancers. Snuffwidget closed the door and sat in the shadows of his room, counting up the gleaming bottles which were glinting in the gloom. He put on his coat and went outside and then his tired eyes opened wide.

  The seed had sprouted! One tender green shoot had sprung up from the ground. Snuffwidget seized his can and watered it again. And day after day he did the same, until the shoot was a stem, was a bush, was a shrub, was grown almost to a tree. And blossom flowered and faded and fell and then there were berries which bore the branches down. And the berries were green, then red, then golden brown.

  Snuffwidget took a basket from the cellar. He wiped it around to take the dust away and inside it was stained the colour of the berries and then he knew this basket must have been old Nana Night-thorn’s own. So he went out into the garden and he picked and he picked just as quickly as he could till the basket was brim full and all glistening with dew.

  That day when he brewed Night-thorn’s Morning Sunrise, the elderflower, nutmeg and basil, simmered in honey – he mixed in the berries too. Then he sat and he waited and watched the street go by, the mothers and the babies who came knocking for their sweets, the men on their way to the fields who needed a jar of lemonade to help them on their way. And the draggle of dancers still tottering on to the beat of the distant drum out under the Fever Tree.

  One day passed, and two, and three. Snuffwidget’s fingers were trembling as he unscrewed the lid on top of the brew. He drew in a breath and his cheeks became flushed as his nostrils twitched and his lips felt as though they’d been newly kissed, though no-one was there at all. Snuffwidget raised the jar. He took a sip. His tongue was dancing. He took another, then more, then more. He felt a warmth inside him and as the sun streamed in through the window, he thought he could hear Corbin Night-thorn laughing happily and feel her arms embracing him as she swirled him round the room.

  There was a knocking at the door. Snuffwidget flung it open wide. Ravenhair and the dancers were standing right outside.

  “Snuffwidget, why are you smiling so much?” Moonpetal cried.

  “Step up, step up.” Snuffwidget beckoned them in as he held out a glass of Night-thorn’s Morning Sunrise.

  “Not this again,” sighed Scatterlegs.

  “It’s only old rot-gut,” Hamsparrow complained.

  “We’ve all tried it before,” said Scarum, shaking his head.

  “We’ve got better things to do,” Ravenhair declared. “Can’t you hear the drummer’s started, out under the Fever Tree?”

  And they shuffled all away, leaving only Moonpetal sitting on the step.

  “Here,” she said. “Let me try.”

  She took a sip from the glass. The Sunrise was sweet. Sweeter than honey, sweeter than dew. Sweeter than the rainbows that float in the river and run to the ocean when the moon is still new. Moonpetal smiled and stretched her arms wide as she arched her back.

  “Should I come with you, out to the field?” Snuffwidget asked.

  Moonpetal shook her head.

  “It’s too late,” she said. “The dancers have gone.”

  As Snuffwidget gazed into her eyes which shone as bright as berries, twas as if Corbin Night-thorn sat right there beside him.

  “I think I’ll stay here instead,” she said, as she shook the dead red petals out of her hair.

  They climbed the step together and as they closed the door, the street outside filled slowly with a cluster of dark-winged crows.

  Ravenhair and the Pedlar Man

  Let me tell you… Let me tell you… around Old Granny Willowmist’s cottage the cats would slink scowling by day and prowling by night, all marl eyed and belly crawling, crook backed and yowling. Once Greychild heard them he could never get to sleep – and sleep came hard enough for him, here between the four walls of Granny Willowmist’s cottage, for he was a child of the woods, remember? He had grown up under the trees, with the moon in his eye and the wind in his hair. He sang his own songs, he played his own games. He could not settle in the village. On hot summer nights like this, those old cats would watch him steal out of Granny Willowmist’s house and pad down the silent streets, while everyone was sleeping.

  Greychild would make his way to the woods again, the woods that he knew, the woods where he grew. He would run through the trees, tearing loose his shirt and he would howl a sweet release. Not the howl of the Wolf the village boys took him for, but a howl of his own tongue. Howl of wind, of sinew, of bark rough against skin, of brambles gnawing at his legs, of the sweet kiss of dew at the waking of dawn.

  And he would howl for mother, though mother had not come here these long moons gone. But he howled for her still and he felt an emptiness aching inside him bigger than the hunger he first knew when she stopped coming, stopped bringing him food. And he would sing again, the song she sang for him: “Coddle me, coddle me, my darling son…”

  But the wood was empty now and he howled one last time to the moon which hung between the trees. She was not here – and she was not in the village, he knew that. But he set off back, grateful again that at least he had his long narrow bed in Granny Willowmist’s cottage, where the cats sat and waited, watching for his return.

  Greychild was tired now, loping sleepily across dull colourless fields. As he reached Brunt Boggart’s twisted streets, the first squat cottages lurking in the dark, he heard a sound. Sound like banshees, wailing, howling, clattering and beating. Greychild stopped. He remembered the boys had told him how they thought he was Wolf. Told him they all felt safe now, now they knew he was Boy. But maybe, true, there was Wolf, and this Wolf was coming now. Coming down the narrow streets. Coming down the rattle of cobbles. Beating against locked windows. Greychild shivered. Wolf was here. Wolf was before him as he hid in a doorway, shivering and shaking as Oakum Marlroot and his men rounded the corner. Not Wolf, but wolf in them. Their eyes were wild, their fists were hanging – beating and brawling, singing and wailing. Filled with the best and worst of Snuffwidget’s ale which he stored at the back of his cellar. They had been there and drunk it all.

  Oakum Marlroot stood big in the moonlight. He could see Greychild cowering in the door.

  “WolfBoy!” he spat. “You know what you are. You know that we know. What you been doing out now on your own? This been night. All good people sleeping. What you doing out here under the moon?”

  Greychild’s jaw fell slack. A stream of words which could not find their shape slithered from his mouth and turned to a wail, to a cry, to a howl. Oakum Marlroot seized him triumphantly.

  “See!” He turned to his companions. “See – when he’s out at night, alone at night, alone like Wolf – then is Wolf. Can’t talk at all. Only howl.”

  The men around
him bayed in agreement.

  “What shall we do with him?”

  Oakum Marlroot pinned Greychild against the door. Greychild felt the hard wood press into his back. Felt Oakum Marlroot’s breath hot on his face, stenching like a rancid dog. Greychild cast his eyes to the moon. At last he found one word.

  “Mother!”

  “Mother…” echoed around the empty streets where all seemed asleep, in spite of all this racket. Not a curtain twitched. Not one door opened. Except this one. The door behind him. Greychild fell into the darkness inside and the door closed quickly again, leaving Oakum Marlroot and his men pounding their fists against the heavy wood. Greychild looked around. He wondered where he was, whose house this might be. But then he heard a voice, a voice firm and sure.

  “Greychild! Are you hurt?”

  Greychild shook his head, confused. It was Crossdogs. He had fallen in through Crossdogs’ door. The boy stood above him and offered his hand. Greychild sprang up, pressed his ear to the door. It shook with one kick from Oakum Marlroot’s boot. Shook but did not budge – and the hinges held firm. Greychild listened. He could hear the men cursing, then muttering, then hear them shuffling away. He looked at Crossdogs. There was silence. Then a crash as one hurled bottle shattered against the door. They waited, but no sound came anymore.

  “Greychild – what are you doing?” Crossdogs chided. “You shouldn’t be out at night. Should be sleeping in Granny Willowmist’s cottage. Does she know where you are?”

  Greychild shook his head.

  “Not sure if I know where I am. Anywhere I go don’t seem right somehow. Have to keep running. Have to keep looking.”

  “What are you looking for?” Crossdogs asked.

  “Looking for home.”

  “Granny Willowmist give you a home.”

  “Granny Willowmist is kind. But her house is her house, not mine. My home isn’t here. Not in the village. Not in the woods. Home is where my mother is.”

  “Your mother’s…” Crossdogs began.

  “… not here,” Greychild concluded. “I know, I know. Not here, not there. Not anywhere. But somewhere after all. I have to find her.”

  Crossdogs shook his head as he filled the kettle and placed it on the hob. The two boys sat in the kitchen while his family were upstairs sleeping. He made a brew of fennel tea. Greychild sipped it slowly as the light from the moon outside glinted on the plates and the cutlery stacked along the dresser.

  “Where else is there?” he asked.

  “Let me tell you…” said Crossdogs, as Greychild sat and listened. “Let me tell you – there is a place. They call it Arleccra.”

  “Where is it? Where is Arleccra?” Greychild leaned forward eagerly.

  “It is far away from here. A day’s walk and a day’s walk and many days’ walk from there. No-one from Brunt Boggart has been there. Nobody has seen it.”

  “Then how do you know of it?” Greychild enquired.

  “We know enough and we know too much and we know nothing at all. The Pedlar Man who comes here tells us all he knows and more.”

  “Who is the Pedlar Man?” Greychild looked puzzled.

  “He’s come this way every month for many a year. Since as long as I can remember and a while before that, I reckon. Don’t bring nothing useful, only bracelets and rings and shiny things, and bright ribbons to tie up the girlen’s hair. But he brings stories too and tells tales of Arleccra.”

  “What does he say?” Greychild’s eyes were shining.

  “Says it’s filled with markets that sell treasures you’ve never dreamt of – brought by ships that sail in from the ends of the world. And taverns and food and wine that tastes sweeter than any potion that Snuffwidget has ever brewed. And there’s dancing and music and everyone’s happy and laughing all day and singing the long night through.”

  “I’d like to go there,” Greychild mused.

  Crossdogs shook his head.

  “Wouldn’t we all? But the way is long and weary. Some set out, but they always return. They always come back to Brunt Boggart.”

  Greychild was sitting on the edge of his chair. In the far distance, in the shadow of the night, he could hear Oakum Marlroot’s men banging at their own front doors as they stumbled back to their houses. Then there was silence. An owl called, way off in the wood.

  “I’d like to meet the Pedlar Man. I’d like to hear for myself everything he can tell me.”

  Crossdogs smiled.

  “You have to be quick to catch him. I only ever see him once in a while. Truth is, mainly it’s the girlen and the mothers and the old’uns who bother with him. All he’s got is bracelets and trinkets. That’s no good for the likes of me.”

  Crossdogs paused and poured out another round of tea.

  “But let me tell you… let me tell you about Ravenhair. You must know Ravenhair, everybody does.”

  Greychild nodded. “She tried to knot my hair with ribbons.”

  “Hope it wasn’t her own ribbon,” Crossdogs replied. “Ravenhair had a ribbon that was darker than night so you couldn’t see it when she had it tied in her pitch black hair. It was the only one she ever wore – it was the one that her Grandmother Ghostmantle gave her. And then one day she lost it. Couldn’t find it anywhere. At first she never minded. She told me it held her hair too tight and now she could shake her tresses long and free and feel the wind as she ran barefoot through the dew-drenched fields all the way to the wood.

  “But then her hair flew into her eyes and she couldn’t see where she was going and her foot slid on a slippery stone and she tumbled down to the ground. As she lay there, her head all spinning, staring up to the sun, she knew that this was no good. She had to have the ribbon, the ribbon her grandmother gave her, the black ribbon she’d always worn. So she limped back to the village and she asked the girlen one by one. You know them all – you know who I mean – Silverwing and Moonpetal, Dawnflower and Duskeye, Scallowflax, Dewdream and Riversong.

  “She even checked through Silverwing’s hair, picking through all the many-coloured ribbons that were tied and knotted there. She tugged at Moonpetal’s one gleaming thong. Dawnflower’s hair was trussed up with daisies, she had no ribbon at all. Duskeye fixed her with a smouldering glare as she raked her fingers through her hair, but all she could find was a comb of white bone. Scallowflax’s tresses were scrabbled and lax, the ribbons hung loosely, while Dewdream and Riversong were braided up tight – but her Grandmother Ghostmantle’s night-black ribbon was nowhere to be seen. None of them had it at all.

  “Ravenhair stamped her foot and then regretted it, for her ankle was still sore from her trip on the slipperty stone.

  “‘Someone must have seen it,’ she winced. ‘Don’t all just stand there, looking so innocent.’ Dawnflower and Moonpetal pretended they hadn’t heard her while Silverwing and Duskeye looked the other way. Dewdream and Riversong shrugged.

  “‘Ribbons come and ribbons go. It’s nothing to fuss about,’ they said. ‘If you can’t find this one, you can soon get another one, next time the Pedlar Man comes.’

  “Ravenhair folded her arms. ‘The Pedlar Man won’t be here till after new moon. But I don’t want a new ribbon – I’m not like you. I don’t keep on changing and trying out new colours. I’ve only had one ribbon since I was a little one – the ribbon my Grandmother Ghostmantle gave me, the ribbon dark as night.’

  “The girlen ran into the darkness and Ravenhair was left standing, her long tresses hanging loose around her shoulders. She was sure that one of them must have taken her ribbon, but unless they were brazen enough to start wearing it in front of her, she had no way of knowing who that might be.

  “Ravenhair wandered away sadly. Perhaps she was judging too harshly. Perhaps none of them had taken the ribbon. Perhaps it had just come loose and blown away in the wind. She peered down the alleyways and rooted round the pigmires. She squinnied the roof-tops and rattled at the leaves of low-hanging trees with a length of willow-stick. But the ribbon dark as night that
her Grandmother had given her was nowhere to be seen. How could she go home? How could she tell her mother that she’d lost the only ribbon that she’d worn all her life?

  “Then she saw it. A dark ribbon, a long ribbon, draped over the top bar of the gate to Oakum Marlroot’s fields. She grabbed it up quickly and swung it in the air, flinging it over her head to tie up her flowing black hair. But then she stopped. The ribbon felt different, not so smooth somehow – it was coarser and rougher. She let her hair fall loose again and ran the ribbon through her fingers. It was dark, sure enough – but not as deep as night. She held it out in front of her. Not as dark and not as long. And at each end was a thread of silver, woven into the black.

  “‘This is not my ribbon at all!’ Ravenhair exclaimed. ‘It must belong to Moonpetal – she’s always copying me. It’s fine enough in its own way, but she must have bought it from the Pedlar Man. Maybe I should wait till after new moon and go and see him myself.’”

  Greychild leaned forward in his chair, drinking in Crossdogs’ words.

  “What did she do? Did she keep Moonpetal’s ribbon to tie up her hair so her mother wouldn’t notice?”

  “I knew that you’d ask me,” Crossdogs said slowly. “What do you think?”

  Greychild rubbed his chin.

  “I think she might try it. Them girlen sure like their ribbons. Always trying new ones. Long’uns, short’uns, pretty ones, tatty ones – just to see how they feel. They always done that with me. A-tying up my hair and stroking of my face. And kissing me all that way and this.”

  Crossdogs shook his head. “But Ravenhair, she’s different – not like the other girlen. She’d never wear Moonpetal’s ribbon – she had to find her own. So she searched day after day. Searched in the alleyways, searched every street, searched in the gutters up under the houses. But it was nowhere to be seen, so she wandered off out into the fields, thinking maybe the wind had taken it.

  “She searched and she searched till at last the new moon rose, a thin sliver of silver, high up in the sky. And then she watched, and then she waited, till just as the other girlen had told her – next night as she sat out by the track, she heard a song in the gloaming and she heard tired boots a-trudging, and then round the corner came the Pedlar Man, with a sack tied on his back. His face was worn with the weather and his beard was long and grey. His eyes had seen the rising suns and his lips were cracked with the stories that he bore from town to town.