Brunt Boggart

by David Greygoose

  “So how did we spend our silver shillen, this bright and splendid day?”

  Firedancer tossed back her hair and stroked her scarf that was woven so fine with creatures from afar.

  “Why, it’s beautiful!” exclaimed Silfren. “Has it brought you some luck already?”

  Firedancer smiled and looked away.

  “Happen it has,” she explained. “Happen a man has looked my way after all these lonely years. But what of you, Silfren? You seem happy too.”

  “I am, I am,” Silfren replied. “You know I don’t need to go looking for no man. I have Rattlehand my husband close at home, but I still have my own desire. The sweetmeats that tantalise my lips, then cling to my tongue and slip down my throat to feed the hunger I carry inside from season’s moon to season’s moon.”

  “They sound sweeter than a thousand kisses!” Firedancer exclaimed. “I’d like to try one – have you saved any that you can share?”

  Silfren hung her head and showed them the empty wrapper.

  “I ate them all as quick as quick. As soon as the honey touches my lips I just want more, then more, then more. I ate them all an hour ago. There’s nothing left to share.”

  “For shame, for shame,” cried Starwhisper. “And I don’t believe you care!”

  “Maybe true I don’t,” grinned Silfren, licking her lips. “But a woman’s got to have her pleasure. How about you, Starwhisper? How did you treat yourself today? Don’t see no scarf, don’t smell no honey. How did you spend your silver shillen?”

  Starwhisper delved and scrabbled to the bottom of her bag and pulled out the wrapper of seeds. Silfren and Firedancer stared at her and laughed.

  “How’s that going to make you happy? Don’t make you pretty. Don’t keep you warm. Don’t give no pleasure for your belly nor your tongue.”

  Starwhisper raised her hand.

  “Give me pleasure soon enough,” she said. “Maybe not now – maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not for a moon and another moon more. But some pleasures come quick and some pleasures come slow. My pleasure will come when these seeds grow.”

  That night Firedancer wrapped her new scarf around her shoulders to keep her warm in the chilly breeze as she made her way across the Green. She was shaking and shivering – though not from cold she told herself, as she knocked at the door of the empty cottage where Old Granny Willowmist’s son had once lived. She could see a light flickering inside, but there was no reply – so she knocked again. She heard a high voice singing, beautiful and pure. She heard a scuffling and a rustling, but no-one came to the door. She knocked again and called Turnfeather’s name. The singing continued and Firedancer was puzzled, for it sounded like a woman’s voice, sure and true.

  She turned away. Who could it be? Mayhap Turnfeather had tricked her. Mayhap every woman who had bought a scarf that day had been invited to the cottage to meet with him. Surely not, she told herself. She paced up and down the overgrown path of the empty cottage, hugging the scarf around her shoulders and wishing its soft touch was Turnfeather himself. But if he had tricked her, why should she stay? Firedancer began to walk away, but when she reached the rusted gate she knew she had to return, drawn to the lighted window like a night-moth to a flame. She needed to see who her rival might be – who had got here before her. Firedancer paused. Dare she look? Did she truly want to know? What if it was Silfren or Starwhisper, her closest friends and true?

  Firedancer shook her head. Surely it could not be. Silfren already had Rattlehand, her husband, who would not stray away. And Starwhisper, why Starwhisper had never taken no man at all. Maybe at last she found one. But why Turnfeather? Why now?

  Firedancer heard the voice again, singing. She stood beside the window and tried to peer in through the glass. Maybe it was not Starwhisper at all. Maybe none of the women of the village. Maybe twas Turnfeather’s sister come along with him. Maybe his mother, come to weave more fine scarves. But no, Firedancer remembered. Turnfeather had said his mother was dead. But at the window, plain as plain, she saw the shadow of an old woman sitting hunched over a small hand loom, rattling the shuttle this ways and that, all the while singing with a long dark scarf wrapped around her head.

  Firedancer turned from the window and rapped sharply on the door. The singing stopped. There was a rustling and a shuffling. Firedancer pushed at the worm-raddled door. The cottage had been empty long years and long. The lintel was rotted and the hinges dull with rust. The door swung open as she pushed and there before her stood a figure in a shawl, threads hanging loose from pale fingers.

  Firedancer stood rooted. Who was this person weaving in the night? New scarves lay littered across the dusty floor. The figure let out a cry and turned away, but not before Firedancer saw the face. It was Turnfeather – she knew it was him. But what was he doing wrapped up in a shawl and wearing a scarf that might be his mother’s? Firedancer stood still. She could not step towards him, she could not run away. She wanted to go, she wanted to stay – for here was the man she had dreamed of all day.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Turnfeather paused. What could he say?

  “I need more scarves,” he told her at last. “I need more scarves to take from village to village and town to town. My mother died these long years past – but she makes them for me still. I carry her loom on my journeys and so she is always with me. My mother wove her dreams for me into each of her scarves. Now I dream her dreams for her and she continues with her weaving. I cannot leave her now and she will never leave me.”

  Turnfeather cried, the cry of a boy, the cry of a man, the cry of an old woman who has left her son to wander village to village, town to town, selling scarves that she can weave no more. Firedancer took him into her arms, this man who was boy, who was man, who was mother. Took him and rocked him till the crying was stopped, till the darkness was gone, till the morning sun slipped through the window to light the pile of silken scarves all strewn across the floor.

  Next day as Firedancer walked down to the Green, she smiled a smile all to herself and stroked the scarf that was still wrapped around her shoulders. Stroked it smooth as a skin on her skin, but then she sighed. Silfren and Starwhisper looked into her eyes.

  “Tell us…” they begged.

  And she told them enough and she told them too much and she told them nothing at all. Silfren and Starwhisper looked at each other then stared back at Firedancer and her fine flowing scarf with a gaze as sharp as a blade in the dark.

  Firedancer returned their glare.

  “Why do you look at me this way? You chose to spend your shillen on sweetmeats and seeds. But I spent my shillen on a scarf.” She tossed it quickly around her neck. “And my scarf will keep me warm. But more than that – my scarf has brought me Turnfeather and he will keep me warmer still.”

  Silfren shook her head.

  “Don’t want your man. I got me Rattlehand, my husband true – and he is safe at home.”

  Starwhisper looked away.

  “Never had a man yet and don’t want one now. And sure as sure not one that’s looked your way.”

  Firedancer stood.

  “If you don’t want my scarf and you don’t want my man, then why do you look at me this way and this?”

  And she walked away from the Green, wherever her feet would take her, all the way up to Langton Brow. But Firedancer was worried. Silfren and Starwhisper had been her friends ever since any of them could remember. Always shared everything they had, be it blackberries in a bowl, daisies to make chains or ribbons pretty as pretty to lace all in their hair. Firedancer, Silfren and Starwhisper went everywhere together, down Mallenbrook Lane tramping in all the puddles, wading in the water deep at Pottam’s Mill or following the boys-who-would-be-men and the girlen-become-women all the way to Sandy Holme. Shared each other’s brooches, necklaces and trinkets. Sometimes for the dance at season’s moon they even swapped round their dresses. But now here they were sulking over Firedancer’s scarf, the scarf all twined with creatures such a
s none had ever seen.

  Firedancer sighed and gazed down at the village below. She knew Starwhisper and Silfren didn’t want her man. But the man would soon be gone, Turnfeather had told her so. Soon as he had woven more scarves he’d be away to the next village and the next. Then Firedancer would be all alone again and more alone than alone for she’d have lost Silfren and Starwhisper too. And so Firedancer was decided – even though Silfren had spent her shillen on sweetmeats and Starwhisper had chosen to buy seeds – they should both have one of Turnfeather’s scarves just the same as her.

  That night Firedancer came to Turnfeather’s cottage and she stood beneath the moon with her shoulders bare and she knocked there slowly three times three. Turnfeather opened the door. This night he did not wear his mother’s shawl and the loom was all packed away.

  “Firedancer, Firedancer. You came to me first in the noise of the market, then you came to me again in the quiet of the night. Now here you are again in the silence of the moon – but where is the scarf that I sold you? Why do you not wear it now?”

  Firedancer cast her eyes to the ground.

  “I have lost the scarf,” she said softly.

  Turnfeather was saddened.

  “I wove that scarf with my mother’s skill. I am sorry to hear it is gone.”

  Firedancer clung to him.

  “The scarf kept me warm, but I longed for your arms.”

  The moon rose high and the stars came and went. In the cold of the morning Firedancer stood at the cottage door, her shoulders bare, pale and shivering.

  “Wait,” Turnfeather called to her. “Careless as you were, I cannot let you go into the chill of the day without another scarf to wrap around your neck.”

  Firedancer took the scarf gladly and hurried off through the village. Before the blackbird sang, she happened upon her friend Silfren, trudging to the well to fetch water.

  “Silfren, Silfren, I know that you’re hungry for sweetmeats all dripping with honey. I cannot get you any of these, but I have a scarf as fine as mine to keep you warm.”

  Silfren looked into Firedancer’s eyes. The scarf was embroidered with rainbows and clouds.

  “Don’t need no scarf to get me a man. I have my husband Rattlehand and he is true as true,” Silfren paused and thought a while, “but this rich cloth is a handsome gift that will keep out the morning dew.”

  That night Firedancer went to the cottage again, knocked once, knocked twice on Turnfeather’s door. Turnfeather opened it, same as before.

  “Firedancer, Firedancer,” he quickly exclaimed. “Where is the scarf that I gave you this morning? You lost the first scarf I sold you. Now you do not wear the next scarf I gave you, embroidered all over with rainbows and clouds.”

  Firedancer cast her eyes to the ground.

  “I have lost the scarf,” she replied.

  Turnfeather had been saddened once. Now he was saddened again.

  “I wove that scarf with my mother’s skill. I am sorry to hear it is gone.”

  Firedancer clung to him once more.

  “The scarf kept me warm, but I longed for your arms.”

  The moon rose high and the stars came and went, same as they had before. In the cold of the morning, Firedancer stood once more at the cottage door, her shoulders bare, pale and shivering.

  “Wait,” Turnfeather called to her. “Careless as you were, and careless as you have been again, I cannot let you go into the chill of the day without another scarf to keep you warm.”

  Firedancer took the scarf gladly and hurried off through the village. Before the cock crew she happened on her friend Starwhisper on her way to the field to gather stems of straw.

  “Starwhisper, Starwhisper, I know that you wait on your seeds from the market, to see how tall they will grow. I cannot ease the waiting, but I have a scarf to make you look fine.”

  Starwhisper looked into Firedancer’s eyes. The scarf was embroidered with rivers and mountains.

  “Don’t need no scarf to get me a man. Never had one before, don’t need one now,” Starwhisper paused and thought a while, “but this fine cloth will keep me cool out in the fields in the noonday sun.”

  Next day and next, Turnfeather happened from old Willowmist’s cottage and down towards the Green. On his way he met Silfren, wearing a scarf sewed with rainbows and clouds and woven true with his mother’s skill.

  “That’s a fine scarf you have there,” he said, knowing full well he had given this scarf to Firedancer to replace the one she said she had lost.

  “It serves me well,” Silfren replied. “It keeps me warm in the morning dew.”

  “I could keep you warm,” Turnfeather suggested, with a glint in his eye.

  Silfren stepped away.

  “I have my husband Rattlehand to keep me warm. I have no need for more,” she replied.

  Turnfeather walked on further as he headed towards the Green. On his way he met Starwhisper, wearing a scarf sewed with rivers and mountains and woven true with his mother’s skill.

  “That’s a fine scarf you have there,” he said, knowing full well that this scarf he had also given to Firedancer to replace the next she said she had lost.

  “It suits me well,” Starwhisper replied. “It covers me from the noon-day sun when I am out in the fields gathering stems of straw.”

  “I could cover your face,” Turnfeather suggested, as he bent forward to kiss her.

  Starwhisper pushed him away.

  “Never had no man before – and I don’t need one now.”

  Turnfeather walked on towards the Green. Soon enough and soon he happened upon Firedancer all wrapped up in a scarf of dancing creatures – the first scarf he had sold her back at the market.

  “Good day, good day,” he greeted her. “That’s a very fine scarf you are wearing.”

  Firedancer blushed and pulled it tight around her shoulders.

  “Thank you so much,” she replied, though she felt a little flustered. “It suits me well to keep me warm while the dew’s still on the ground. And later on it will keep me cool in the heat of the midday sun.”

  “Don’t I keep you warm enough?” Turnfeather asked sadly. “You told me that this scarf was lost and yet I see you wearing it. I gave you two more yet I’ve seen them already, wrapped around the shoulders of two other women.”

  Firedancer hung her head.

  “I gave them away,” she said and stepped up close to Turnfeather to offer him a kiss. Turnfeather drew away.

  “If you give away my scarves which I made with my mother’s skill, then as true is false and as false is true, then I must give you away too.”

  And Turnfeather walked on, with his loom in a bag slung over his shoulder and a belt full of scarves flowing around his waist. He walked all down the main street then out by Mallenbrook Lane and up to Pottam’s Mill till he set off up to Langton Brow, never to see Brunt Boggart again.

  Back in the village the three women continued, each wearing their scarf for a different reason, each one watching the turning season. Silfren’s belly was empty still as she craved the sweetmeats no other could bake. Firedancer gazed in the mirror each morning at the scarf that had brought her warmth but then left her colder than before. But what of Starwhisper, you ask. Did those seeds from the market ever grow?

  Soon as she had bought them with her silver shillen, Starwhisper had squatted down and pressed them into the cold hard ground. Each day she tended them, kneaded them and sang to them, but no shoots appeared. Starwhisper was afraid that her seeds were dead, until one day a green blade slid from the ground and then another and another. Starwhisper was happy and watered them each day and even danced around them as she sang. But then the cold wind blew and the shoots turned black and blighted as she nursed them in her hands. The ground turned cold and hard again and soon all sign of the seeds had gone and Starwhisper knew her chance was lost to raise a crop. And so she turned her hand again to making dolls with the straw she picked in the fields.

  Next season’s moon Fir
edancer, Silfren and Starwhisper stood in the middle of the market in the middle of the Green, with a silver shillen jingling in each of their pockets. Firedancer was gazing this way and that, hoping Turnfeather would come with his scarves again – and Silfren was keeping a watchful eye for the old woman and her sweetmeat stall. But before either of them could go off looking, up came their daughters, Ravenhair and Silverwing, clamouring and pleading for a silver shillen each – for both had seen the very dresses they needed to turn the heads of the boys who had come to visit the fair. Before the two mothers could even think, they’d both parted with the money which they kept for themselves.

  Now Starwhisper was the only one who still had a shillen left in her pocket. She had no daughters to distract her, or take the shillen from her, and so she wandered off from the other two and roamed up and down the stalls.

  “Starwhisper, Starwhisper, what do you seek?” a familiar voice called out to her.

  It was the Pedlar Man, newly come along his dusty track with his pack of shiny trinkets still slung across his back.

  “I hear that last season you bought seeds. Tell me how did they grow?”

  “Seeds grow quick and seeds grow slow and sometimes they do not grow at all,” Starwhisper replied. “I have no time to wait, to water them and weed them. I have no time to watch them grow. I’d rather make my dolls of straw to bring people happiness.”

  Starwhisper looked up at the Pedlar Man.

  “Let me come with you. I have a basket here of new straw dolls which we can take near and far. I will not drink from your flask of red wine and I will not sit by your side. But if you can take me away from here, then I can make new dolls for you to sell wherever you choose.”

  And so the Pedlar Man hoisted up his sack and set off again along the track with Starwhisper beside him. They walked and they walked down the dusty miles till they’d left the market far behind them.