Brunt Boggart

by David Greygoose

  “Maybe she’s still sleeping,” he muttered to himself and prepared his kite, all ready to fly.

  But the kite would not fly, no matter how he tugged at it, all this way and that. No matter how fast he dragged at it, the kite lay on the ground, quite flat. The wind was on the far side of the Crag. The wind had become Arnica and Arnica had become the wind.

  Cloudrunner shrugged again.

  “Some days the wind comes, some days the wind goes. Some days the wind lies still, some days the wind blows.”

  But this day the wind did not blow at all, for Arnica did not come round the top of the Crag to play. But all his days flying kites, Cloudrunner had learnt to wait for the wind, so that’s what he did now. He sat down on the ground, and there he spied one of Arnica’s wolfsbane chains, which she’d made and discarded the evening before. While he sat waiting for the wind to return, Cloudrunner tied the wolfsbane to the tail of his kite, just the way they had the first day he ever came to Bare Stone Crag. As soon as it was tied, he tugged the line and he thought that he could feel it respond. It seemed to tug back, so he pulled it again. Then he picked up the kite and he ran it and ran it, then suddenly he flung it with all his strength up into the air.

  He held his breath and played the string, for the wind was there, he could feel it. But the wind was far, the wind was hiding. He had to use all his skill to reel her in. And so she came. As the kite soared upwards, the wind returned. The wind which was Arnica. He could not see her, but he could hear her sing. Arnica was the wind.

  And what did she sing? Why the song you can hear if you listen hard enough on any windy day:

  “I am the Wind,

  You cannot see me –

  But you can feel me,

  I am here.

  I am the Wind –

  Why do I cry? What have I seen?

  How far do I fly?

  Let me touch your sorrow

  And ease away your pain.

  Let me take you round the world

  And bring you back again.

  I am the Wind –

  How far do I fly?

  What have I seen?

  Why do I cry?

  I am the Wind,

  You cannot see me –

  But you can feel me,

  I am here.”

  Cloudrunner was so amazed to hear Arnica’s voice singing to him that he forgot to play his line and the kite plunged down to the ground beside him. As he bent to pick it up, there was Arnica standing, right where the kite had fallen. She was standing, she was floating, she was hovering all around him. When he reached out to touch her, she seemed to slip away. He could hear her voice, from near, from far.

  “Forget the kite,” she said. “Forget the kite and come play with me, every day at the top of Bare Stone Crag.”

  Cloudrunner let go of his kite and it flew right away, right over the plain and over the woods, all back to Brunt Boggart where his father was waiting. Then Arnica took Cloudrunner’s hand and they ran and they ran, all around the top of Bare Stone Crag. When they stopped, Arnica smiled, with her eyes open wide, reflecting the rays of the sun – and then she draped a chain of fresh wolfsbane, gently around Cloudrunner’s shoulders.

  Firedancer, Turnfeather and the Loom of Night

  Let me tell you… let me tell you – once there were three women – Silfren, Firedancer and Starwhisper. Now the first was Silfren and she had two daughters, name of Silverwing and Snowpetal. The second was Firedancer, who had one daughter only, name of Ravenhair. The third woman was Starwhisper and she had no daughter at all, nor no son neither.

  Now Silfren had a husband name of Rattlehand and he lived all along with her and their two daughters, all up in their cottage by the edge of the Green. Firedancer had a husband name of Foxbriar, but Foxbriar was gone, lost him these long years ago to the darkness and the storm. And what of Starwhisper? Why Starwhisper had no husband. Never had no man at all – just spent all her time making dollies from straw. Some swore these dollies brought them luck with men – but however many dollies Starwhisper made for all the women of the village, they never seemed to bring her no luck that way.

  But Silfren, Firedancer and Starwhisper, they had known each other all their lives long. They would sit out and gossip on the grass of the Green now that Silverwing and Ravenhair were all tall and grown and didn’t need no mothers to follow them about. And though Snowpetal was still a little’un, the daughters could all do much as they wished, most of the day, long as they didn’t go down by the wood.

  “Let me tell you…” said Silfren to her daughters, and Ravenhair was listening too. “Let me tell you – once there was a mother, same as me, same as Firedancer. She lived all out in a cottage by the woods. Lived there with her daughters, very like the three of you. Now every day this mother would send her daughters out to play. And the very game they liked to play was picking berries in the wood. I know what you’re asking, Snowpetal. I know what you want to say. Wasn’t there a Fox living in the woods? Well maybe yes and maybe no – we will see what we will see. But anyways, in daylight the wood seemed safe enough. It was only with the darkness out under the frozen moon that they would hear howling and some said it was just the wind, but others said it was Fox for sure. So every afternoon the daughters would venture into the wood with their pinafores all pressed and clean. And they would tiptoe between the trees, gathering berries as they pleased to place in their baskets and take back to their mother who would set to and bake them all in a juicy berry pie.

  “But this very afternoon, the girls stopped to look at the sky and saw the clouds scudding in and wondered if there might be rain as they skipped between the trees. They went on picking berries till their pinafores were stained with red, but then the eldest daughter felt the first rain on her head. And so they sheltered there and waited for the storm to pass, for as they peered up to the sky they were sure it would not last.

  “Back home at the cottage their mother saw the rain and hoped that her young’uns were safe and would soon be home again. She set to mixing pastry and rolling it for the pie, while watching through the window to check the changing sky. She mixed the flour and water in her earthenware bowl, tipped it out and rolled it flat – then heard a knocking at the door. She shook the flour from her hair and wondered who this could be. At first she thought it was her daughters come home safe – but then she knew it could not be for they would have a key.”

  “Who is it, Mother? Tell us true.” Little Snowpetal clutched her sister’s hand and clung tight to Ravenhair’s knee.

  “Listen and I’ll tell you,” Silfren replied. She dropped her voice as low as low and whispered in their ears… “It was the Fox, my dears!”

  Snowpetal jumped back, while Ravenhair caught Silverwing’s eye and they exchanged knowing smiles.

  “What should the mother do? Tell me, what would you do?” Silfren asked the girls.

  Snowpetal covered her face with her hands.

  “I’d run and hide!” she cried.

  “What would you two do?” Silfren asked the older girlen.

  Ravenhair and Silverwing smiled again and stroked each other’s hair.

  “All depends what he came for,” Ravenhair replied.

  “That’s just what this mother thought,” Silfren continued. “This Fox did not seem a fierce fox, a hungry fox, such as she had heard. This Fox looked trim and handsome with a soft and winning smile.

  “‘Good woman,’ the Fox said to her, ‘– please let me come in for a while.’

  “‘For a while and a while,’ the mother replied, ‘—but tell me what you want.’

  “The Fox’s eyes roved around the kitchen and spied the bowl on the table and the cups all set on the dresser.

  “‘Why, let me in, for I am thirsty and I crave a cup of hot nettle tea.’

  “The mother combed her fingers through her hair and wiped away the flour she could feel tickling on her nose. She looked the Fox first up then down, then pulled the door full open wide.

&n
bsp; “‘Come inside,’ she cried, for she was lonely these long days now, now that her husband was gone – and while her daughters were away in the woods she had no-one to talk to. The Fox smiled a winsome smile and stepped through the door, his long tail swishing across the floor. While the mother put the kettle on to start the brew, the Fox peered around the kitchen, preening his whiskers and picking up saucers and plates and cups, examining them carefully and putting them down again.

  “The mother watched him curiously. ‘It’s very fine crockery,’ she explained. ‘My husband would buy me a piece each month when the Pedlar Man came along the track. Cup by saucer by plate we collected until we had all that we needed. Now I have a full set, but my husband he is gone. Only my daughters to eat with me and they use the earthenware bowls so none of the best china gets broken.’

  “The Fox stroked the cup he was holding, then slowly put it down. He peered at the mother with enquiring eyes.

  “‘Then why do you keep a dinner set that no-one comes to use?’

  “The mother poured the water from the kettle into the pot, patted her hair and smiled.

  “‘Why, you never know when a stranger might call, every once in a while.’

  “The Fox smiled too and gazed at the mother and stroked his whiskers again.

  “‘Where are your children now?’ he asked.

  “‘I sent them out to play in the wood,’ the mother explained, ‘– while I make pastry for the pie.’

  “The Fox ran his paw round the bowl on the table.

  “‘So I see,’ he said. ‘Your children – will they be long?’

  “‘Who knows, who knows?’ the mother exclaimed as she poured the steaming brew. ‘But come along and sit with me and share a cup of tea.’

  “The Fox sat down at the kitchen table and while his eyes roamed round the room, he blew gently across his cup of tea, then slowly put it down.

  “‘Your husband, tell me – what did he do?’

  “The mother closed her eyes as if she was gazing into her dreams and memories.

  “‘He collected eggs,’ she replied, then sighed. The Fox eyed her curiously, twirling his whiskers all the while. ‘He collected eggs, oh so carefully. One here, one there – from blackbirds, robins, thrushes. Never enough to disturb the clutch, so the mother-bird wasn’t scared off.’

  “The Fox leaned forward.

  “‘Go on,’ he said. ‘What did he do with the eggs?’

  “The mother closed her eyes again and clasped her hands at the thought.

  “‘Why, he painted them,’ she explained. ‘He would paint each one like a world in itself, with forests and villages, cities and mountains. Each one was like an eye that could see the world we could not see, stuck here in the village by the wood.’

  “‘How did he know of all these things?’ The Fox sounded intrigued. He flicked his tongue across his lips.

  “‘Never knew for sure,’ the mother pondered. ‘Wasn’t as if he was a travelling man. Sometimes he never set foot beyond this door from one moon’s wane to the next. But he was a dream traveller, that’s for sure. Could sail across oceans in his head, could fly through skies and climb far-off hills without ever leaving his bed.’

  “The Fox took one more sip of his hot nettle tea, then wiped his lips again. Outside the rain drummed softly against the window pane.

  “‘These eggs,’ he said, ‘sound wonderful. Pray tell me, is it possible that I might view them, for I have never travelled far away from these woods, and I would like to see these eggs that can show me the world beyond.’

  “The good mother hesitated. What could she do? What would you do?”

  “I wouldn’t show him the eggs at all,” Snowpetal interrupted. “I would open the door that instant and send him on his way.”

  “You might be right. I’m sure you would – and I know that I would too. But that poor mother was lonely with her husband lost and gone. And so she reached inside her blouse and pulled out the key to the dresser.

  “‘Since you’re so interested, I’ll show you,’ she said. ‘But first I must explain.’ She paused a moment, clutching the key. ‘There are only six eggs left now. All the rest are gone. For my husband used to sell them – that’s how he earned his keep. Some days there’d be a crowd all down the path waiting to see his latest batch. And most times when the Pedlar Man came by, why he would take some too and sell them on to the other villages, further down the track.’

  “The mother turned and caught the Fox’s eye. He was standing there staring at her in a strange and curious way, then he edged right up close to her and placed one paw on her arm.

  “‘Open the dresser,’ he whispered, ‘– and show me these marvellous eggs. Then perhaps you’ll do me the favour of walking out with me. I can show you such beautiful dells, waterfalls and copses that no other creature ever will see, all hidden in the woods.’

  “The mother hesitated. The Fox gently stroked her shaking hand which was clutching on to the key. She stepped away from him quickly and opened up the dresser. There beneath a linen cloth lay a clutch of painted eggs. The mother hurried away to the window and stared out at the woods while she considered what the Fox had said.

  “‘There are the eggs,’ she told him. ‘You may gaze at them as much as you wish, but please do not try and touch them, for they are very precious to me, so fragile and so frail.’

  “But all the while she stared through the window and saw that the rain had stopped. She gazed across the lush damp grass to the tall green trees that were dripping still. How she longed to go there, to wander with the Fox, to visit the waterfalls, dells and copses which he had told her of. It was so long since she’d been out walking with her husband lost and gone. But her daughters three were playing there and she was waiting for them to come home. What could she do? What should she do? Then suddenly she heard a scrabbling behind her and turned to see the Fox, who had one of her husband’s painted eggs gripped tightly in his jaw.

  “‘Stop!’ cried the mother. ‘What did I tell you? You can look all you want, but do not touch. Be off with you now!’

  “She seized a broom and chased that Fox, sneaky and treacherous as he was, away out of her door.”

  “But what about the daughters?” Snowpetal asked as she wriggled away from Ravenhair and Silverwing who were trying to plait dandelions into her hair.

  “I know what you’re asking,” Silfren replied. “What were her three daughters doing away out in the wood, where they had waited for the rain to stop? There they were standing under a tree, their pinafores all stained and red with the berries they had been picking, and their baskets filled to overflowing. The youngest had begun to eat the berries, for she was hungry and cold – and now her mouth was all smeared with the fruit and her cheeks were speckled and blotched.

  “All of a sudden, her sisters turned with a start. There before them in the glade stood a slim and sinewy fox. No – I know what you’re thinking, Snowpetal. Not the fox that had visited their mother’s cottage while they were away in the woods. No, this fox was that cunning Fox’s wife. But she seemed gentle and kindly to the sisters three.

  “‘Why, what are you doing shivering here all out in the rain?’ she exclaimed. ‘Come, come – come along this way with me. My cottage is close by, where you can get warm and dry.’

  “The daughters looked at each other. They weren’t sure what to do. But the youngest one pleaded, ‘I’m hungry and cold.’ Their own cottage where their mother was waiting was far away and far and so they followed the Fox’s wife down an overgrown path beneath the tall dark trees. Her cottage was shadowy and small, but she kept it trim and neat. A row of gleaming pans hung all along the dresser and there were jars of sage and parsley neatly set in rows.

  “‘Come in – come in, my dears!’ she cried. ‘Take off your wet coats and set down your baskets of berries here. Why, I could bake you a delicious pie!’

  “‘Yes, please,’ said the youngest, but her sisters kicked her.

  “‘Our
mother is rolling out pastry right now to bake us a pie when we return.’

  “The Fox-Wife paused for a moment.

  “‘So you have a mother, you say?’

  “‘Yes,’ explained the youngest daughter. ‘She lives in a cottage just beyond the wood, over that-a-way.’

  “‘I see, I see,’ said the Fox-Wife as she pulled on her pinny and patted it down. ‘And does she let you out roaming all alone in the woods?’

  “‘Oh yes,’ cried the girls. ‘She doesn’t mind. She’s told us which berries are safe to eat, which roots to pull, which flowers to pick.’

  “‘The woods can be dangerous still,’ the Fox-Wife turned around, ‘– but you’re safe here with me. Now sit yourselves down and I’ll pour you some milk. You must be hungry after walking so long and all soaking wet with the rain. I’ll put on my pot and see what I can find to make us a hot warming stew.’

  “‘Yes please!’ cried the youngest daughter, though her sisters frowned at her while the Fox-Wife clattered around, chopping up tatties, carrots and parsnips and rattling the pans. She popped all the vegetables into the pot and as soon as the kettle came to the boil she covered them over in bubbling water. The daughters three stared around the room as they slowly drank their milk.

  “‘Has it stopped raining yet?’ the eldest asked, but it was very hard to see, for the windows were covered with curtains of net.

  “‘I’m cold and I’m hungry,’ the second sister cried as the Fox-Wife raised the lid of the pot and sprinkled seasoning inside.

  “‘I’m so glad you found us,’ smiled the youngest sister sleepily. ‘And I can’t wait to taste your stew. Will it be as delicious as Mother makes for us?’

  “‘Oh yes, I’m sure it will,’ the Fox-Wife replied as she sidled up beside the youngest one and pinched her arm, just to keep her awake.