Brunt Boggart

by David Greygoose

  The Moon of Blood was coming, the first full moon after harvest. Riversong could feel its pull, tugging at her limbs till they danced without her bidding, tugging at her very veins as if they were rivers and streams, as if her body was the sea, dragged this way and that like the tide. She wrapped her red dress around her waist, just like all the other girlen. She tied her hair with ribbons bright and daubed a powder on her face to make it pale as the flowers which glowed in the wood and turned the colour of death.

  Larkspittle watched her, but could not speak. He knew the words that he wanted to say, but knew they could not be spoken. He stretched his limbs like the branches of a tree as he felt the sap sluicing, flowing and forcing. The dance was coming, the Moon of Blood.

  Far away in the Echo Field, they heard the Drummer beating. Heard him hammering out the rhythm, under the Fever Tree. But the pulse grew closer, as they heard him tracking in, all down the ditchways and the miry lanes, skirting round Oakum Marlroot’s meadow, past Mottram Ironfield’s stern-faced farm and Old Mother Tidgewallop’s cottage, till he came at last to Mallenbrook Lane close by Pottam’s Mill, calling the darkness down, each step closer he came. And as he approached, the boys took up the rhythm, beating sticks and stamping their boots. Some started chanting while others sang, and soon enough they all joined in:

  “The Shuttle Stone stands tall and proud.

  Hear our voices singing loud…”

  While way out in the woods, Skyweaver took down his fiddle. He tightened the horsehair and rosined up his bow. He struck a chord, then another, then another before slamming shut his cottage door and stepping out into the darkness. But darkness was not darkness long as the full moon came rising high above the tree-tops, climbing through the sky till it hung huge and amber, lighting forest, lighting clearing. Lighting up the mossy hollow in the middle of Brunt Boggart’s Green.

  The girlen lit candles, while the old’uns and the wifen hung lanterns of paper, lanterns of gauze, lanterns of beeswax, lanterns twined of straw. Lanterns of feathers and butterfly wings – each of them gleaming, casting out redness, casting out scarlet, glowing rich as oxblood hung on poles, dangling from low branches all around the hollow, all around the Green, all along the avenue of trees that led away to a darkened grove at the edge of the waiting wood. While away and away, the other way, a path of tangled roots and scattered bones led along down to the Shuttle Stone which stood true and tall in the moonlight.

  And then that moment they’d been waiting for, all this long season gone, when Skyweaver and Drummer met again, in the middle of the hollow in the Green. Skyweaver climbed a-top the platform of planks lashed together by hempen rope and Drummer sat cross-legged beside him and the rhythm beat on and the melody soared high. Though the two men never spoke, no more than a passing nod, their instruments spoke for them, the pounding of the drum-skin and the fiddle’s searing shrill. Spoke more than words ever could. Spoke sunset and moonrise, night’s raptures and rituals. Spoke sorrow and anguish, frenzy and desire. Spoke a language beyond singing, beyond chanting, beyond dancing. Spoke time beyond time, lost in the fire.

  Caught up in the swirling crowd, caught up in the tug of the rhythm, Larkspittle rushed and stuttered along, looking out for his companions, Shadowit, Scarum, Scatterlegs and Longskull. But he could not see them. Could only see Oakum Marlroot and Mottram Ironfield, drunk already, offering a fight to anyone who would take them. Larkspittle wheeled away. Saw the girlen in their ribbons, their red skirts swirling. Saw Duskeye, Silverwing, Dawnflower and Dewdream. And then the crowd scattered. The girlen shrieked and ducked away, and Larkspittle was standing, face to face with Riversong.

  She looked at him.

  He looked at her.

  They both looked away.

  Neither of them knew just what to say. Riversong smiled, her eyes open wide. Larkspittle’s tongue trembled.

  “Strong moon,” he mumbled.

  Riversong looked aloft. The moon was gone. It hid behind the clouds. She started to reply, but Silverwing grabbed her, seized her by the arm and steered her away, off with all the other girls. Larkspittle stood and watched her go. He raised his hand as if he was waving, but Riversong had gone, sucked into the crowd which rushed into the hollow where the drum was beating.

  The Green was packed. From everywhere they had come, from far-flung farms, from broke-down cottages on Brunt Boggart’s edge. Some even came from over the hills, from up river, from one day’s walk down the Pedlar Man’s Track. And the Pedlar Man himself was there, spreading out his wares on a stall at the verge of the Green – the ribbons and the trinkets and the glittery things. The revellers were tugged by Snuffwidget’s wine and the howl of the wind and the surge of the rhythm and Skyweaver’s fiddle and the blood in their veins sucked on by the moon in a raw red tide which they all could ride as the drum beat on.

  But Riversong had gone.

  Thunderhead hauled himself up onto the shaky wooden platform in the middle of the Green, his tall hat dark above his lime-daubed face. He raised one arm like a long white bone and pointed up to the bowl of the moon as it crept out from behind a cloud. The Drummer stopped, Skyweaver ceased and all the people on the Green fell silent.

  “Let the Dance begin,” Thunderhead intoned.

  There was a shuffling and a shoving and a rushing and a pushing as women and men, girlen and boys took up partners, arm in arm. Skyweaver crouched and rosined his bow one final time, ready for the long night coming, while the Drummer tapped restlessly at the edge of his skins.

  One beat. Two beats. Skyweaver unleashed his bow. Thunderhead leapt from the platform into the midst of the circling throng and wheeled away in a dervish dance, urging them on. Larkspittle glimpsed Riversong again, on the far side of the ring. He knew that if he waited, as the dance progressed, as each couple embraced and twirled, then she would come to him.

  But first came Ravenhair, then Silverwing, then Dawnflower, then Moonpetal – and Larkspittle danced with each one of them. Each one of them took his hand, each one of them swirled him, each one of them twirled him and then each ducked under Larkspittle’s outstretched arm and then the brief embrace as they swung one another around and Larkspittle sensed their clinging, their softness or their urgency, their distance or their delicacy, the kiss which followed moist and sweet or crisp and sharp, till the beat pulled their feet away and the dance wheeled on, driven by the rhythm, turn upon turn – till the next girl in the circle was Riversong.

  And then she came to him, took him by the hand and they swirled and they twirled, same as ever before and Riversong ducked low, underneath his outstretched arm. And then they embraced. Uncertain at first. Riversong looked away. Looked away to the old’uns, clustered around the platform where the Drummer and Skyweaver played. Looked away to her companions, Silverwing and Dewdream. Looked away to the Moon of Blood, high above. Looked anywhere but at Larkspittle. But at the same time her hands gripped his waist, gripped him fast and close and hip upon hip, thigh against thigh, her body soft as the Hollow’s moss and supple as a willow, they swirled and they span till the stars stood still though the beat of the drum rode on. And the dancers around were all waiting, waiting for Larkspittle and Riversong to part so that the circle could turn again and each take up new partners in a fresh embrace.

  Skyweaver kept on playing, smiling as his foot tapped out the rhythm. And the Drummer’s hands kept moving in a blur as fast as beeswings.

  But while the dancers waited, Riversong cradled her arm about Larkspittle’s neck. She pulled him close and closer still. The kiss was slow. The kiss was strong. Larkspittle trembled, every nerve-end awakened. He was lost in a darkness that was no darkness at all. Filled with light, filled with silence, in the midst of the row-de-dow. Then he felt a hand heavy on his shoulder. Other arms grabbed him round the waist, sturdy and muscular, prizing him from Riversong. He saw her led away amidst a circling throng of the wifen and the girlen and a clutch of grey-haired old’uns, all clad in red – red skirts, red scarves, red shawls and cow
ls, red poppies twined in their hair. They swirled her away, away from the dancing, the music and the rhythm. Away from Larkspittle who quivered, lost and confused, flanked by Crossdogs and Hamsparrow, Bullbreath and Shadowit, in the midst of the boys-who-would-be-men.

  Away from the dance was the darkness. The rhythm beat on in Riversong’s head as she was borne by the girlen, Ravenhair and Silverwing, Dawnflower and Duskeye. The wood was crow-dark and breathing. Their feet cracked on fallen twigs, brambles clawed at their skirts, their scarlet dresses. The trees loomed low and seemed to whisper, their branches beckoning sinuously.

  The women carried Riversong down a gully of darkness, away from the eye of the moon. The floor was moist and slippery wet where the red leaves of autumn had fallen. Their hands pushed Riversong on, urgent and strong. Behind her, she heard the song:

  “In the Red Grove our senses spin.

  Look without and look within:

  Girlen games no more to play –

  Moon of Blood takes them away.”

  She looked for the women to follow her, for she needed their strength, their confidence, but suddenly she was alone. The Moon of Blood broke through from above, through the clouds, through the lattice of branches – and she could see that she was meshed in a tunnel of bramble thorn. She wanted to be back at the Green, to be with Larkspittle, to hold him in her arms and to kiss him once again – but she heard the women’s voices and she knew she must go on. As she pushed between the bushes, sharp thorns snagged her arms, jagged her fingers, ripped her legs. Her pulsing veins were raked and torn and she tasted her blood pure red.

  “Wax and wane

  And kiss the pain.

  Share the pleasure,

  Turn again.”

  The song drove Riversong on, away from the clawing thorns, and thrust her into a grove that was hid behind the trees. Here were poppies, vivid red, alike the Echo Field. Here were roses, blooming rich and rare. Here were trees topped with plum red apples and berries of darkest hawthorn. From away and away she heard the voices of the women and all the other girlen, dressed in scarlet petticoats, just as she wore now.

  “Girlen games no more to play,

  Moon of Blood takes them away.

  Look without and look within –

  In the Red Grove our senses spin.”

  Riversong looked around. Here was the Red Grove. She was here now, this place the other girlen told her of – that they sang about, whispered about all out on the Green and all the way down by the edge of the wood. She was here now. But now she was here, what should she do? Under the light of the Moon of Blood, Riversong could see everything and nothing at all. She wanted to be back at the dance, she wanted to be here all alone.

  And so she danced, she danced the Grove. Danced to embrace the apple tree, her scarlet skirt draped round its trunk. Danced to touch the hawthorn bush, its glistening teeth tormenting her. Danced to pluck the darkest rose, never mind that its thorns snagged at her wrists. She wiped her hands all down her dress. She wanted to let the blood run free. She wanted to let it flow.

  She found the cup they’d told her of, back when they whispered in their huddles on the Green – found it caught in the roots of the tallest tree. She lifted it up to her lips and drank – and the wine was sweet, the wine was dark. The wine was laced with tang of salt and as she drank it spilled upon her dress. Riversong wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Her head was clouded, her head was clear. And then she felt her body arch – and then she felt her body spin. All the trees about her were trembling within. Up above the Blood Moon swam. Outside the Red Grove, the women still sang.

  She wanted to dance on, but was suddenly tired, as if she’d been dancing for years, though she knew that the dance she was dancing now had only just begun. And so she stood still, all alone in the Grove. Far off she could hear the fiddle and the drum, but here in the Red Grove, all was silent, nothing moved. A twig cracked. Riversong held her breath. Then Old Nanny Ninefingers stepped out of the shadows, holding up a lantern. Her gown was long and her head was shrouded in a shawl of faded scarlet. She held out her hand to Riversong.

  “Now you have come to the Red Grove. Now you have drunk from the Cup. Here is Death in Life and here is Life in Death. Guard the Red Grove well, for here is our place, the Sisteren. What you see here and what you learn, only you can tell.”

  Beyond the thicket of thorn bushes they could hear the voices of the girlen who were waiting to lead Riversong back to the Green.

  “Here child, take this,” the old woman said, before hurrying to join the others. She handed Riversong a small linen bag drawn at the corners by string. Riversong inhaled its strong aroma.

  “Wait!” She called the old woman back. “Tell me what is here.”

  Ninefingers smiled.

  “Rosemary, saffron, cinnamon and rue,” she explained. “Keep it close when the moon comes full – it will be of comfort to you.”

  But what of Larkspittle? Where was he while Riversong was taken to the Grove? He too was dragged, by the boys-who-would-be-men, their shoulders hung with fox pelts, their faces daubed with clay, not smiling, not laughing, just fixed and determined as they bore him away. Larkspittle was coming with them, whether he wanted or no, whether he’d rather be back at the Dance, whether he’d rather be kissing Riversong still. Larkspittle was coming with them. And they were going to the Shuttle Stone, the tall rock which stood proud, naked and white in the shaft of light cast between the clouds.

  All around the Stone were ashes and bones. The ground was charred with the scars of old fires. And the boys-who-would-be-men had piled a low pyre there, autumn’s dead branches, fallen and broken, twisted and snapped. Bullbreath and Longskull seized Larkspittle fast, while Crossdogs and Hamsparrow busied themselves, setting a light to the nest of branches as Larkspittle watched, his limbs shaking. He knew of this, they all talked of this, the boys-who-would-be-men, as they wrestled and spat, as they strutted in their fox pelts, as they sang their ribald songs in the hollow on the Green. But now he knew this day was his, the day he longed for, the day he feared – while the flames caught and quickly spread as Crossdogs and Hamsparrow came back to stand by his side and silently tied the thin leather thongs, chafing at his ankles and his wrists.

  And then the cry began. An intoned muttering at first, then louder and faster, faster and louder as the boys-who-would-be-men gripped the thongs and slipped them tight. Larkspittle fell to the ground. And then they were pulling him, drawing him along, through ashes, through brambles, across a clutter of old animal bones, towards the towering Shuttle Stone which rose tall and pale above him. Slowly at first, and then faster, then faster as the chant grew louder:

  “The Shuttle Stone stands tall and proud.

  Hear our voices singing loud.

  Touch the top with quivering hand,

  Never look down to the ground.”

  And then the heat. The heat of the fire as they reached the flames and the boys pulled the leather thongs tighter, jerking Larkspittle into the air. Then they ran, Crossdogs and Hamsparrow on one side, Bullbreath and Longskull on the other, running each side of the fire, running each side of the pyre which crackled and spat while Larkspittle passed through. Passed through heat, passed through flames, as he jerked, as he writhed, till he was out the other side, hurtling on towards the tall rock which waited, the white shaft of the Shuttle Stone standing proud in the darkness. And then Crossdogs and Hamsparrow, Bullbreath and Longskull all stopped. Crossdogs cried out, a cry like a beast in pain, in the pleasure of the rut, from the darkness in his gut. And he held the knife high, glinting in the moonlight. Down it plunged, cutting through the leather thongs which bound the young boy’s wrists and ankles.

  Larkspittle ran. Ran towards the Shuttle Stone, just as the chant began again:

  “First climb fast and then climb slow.

  The higher you reach, the further you go.

  Once you’re there you’ll never stop,

  Even though you’re at the top.” />
  Larkspittle gripped the Stone. Held it hard in both his hands. The chanting continued, behind him, all around him, the words beating in his head as he began to climb, hand over hand, hanging on to the toe-holds that had been worn into the stone by all the other boys-who-would-be-men who had climbed before him. He felt the blood surging in his head, urging him on.

  “You have to reach the top before the chant is done.” He knew what the boys had told him, in whispered huddles down by the water butt. He looked up. The pinnacle of the Stone seemed so far away and he could hear their song rising, louder and louder, but quicker and faster, just when he wanted it to slow down. Slow down so that he could make each grip safely before he moved on. But he had to scramble, hand over hand, his feet slipping and sliding beneath him. He looked up. Beyond the Stone’s white pinnacle he could see stars clear and brighter than bright, while the moon shone full. But he dare not look down. He could not go back. The ground was far below, and he could imagine the raised faces of Crossdogs and Hamsparrow, watching him, willing him, urging him. Goading him on.

  “Never look down to the ground.

  Touch the top with quivering hand.

  Hear our voices singing loud.

  The Shuttle Stone stands tall and proud.”

  The words spun on. He was nearly there. His hands touched the rim of the rock just below the pinnacle. He tried to grip, but his fingers were sliding. He cried out, just as a shaft of light from the moon spilled out to bathe the pinnacle in milky whiteness. He hauled himself up to the very top and for a moment so brief that it seemed never-ending, he could see the boys below, standing in a circle around the base of the Stone. Could see the dance continuing, back on Brunt Boggart’s Green. Could see away off, deep in the wood, a stream of women dressed in scarlet petticoats, slipping away from a grove of trees, shimmering red with poppies, roses and berries.