A girlen pressed her face up close to his and peered into his eyes. Prodded at him with an icy finger.
“I am Ashblossom,” she whispered.
Her voice was thin and reedy, like as if it was here, but not here at all. Her dress was long and blue as sky and her fingernails they were painted each one with a glittering dragonfly.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am Greychild,” he said, his eyes darting back and forth as the figures pressed around him, pushing and poking as if they could not see him.
“Greychild…” Ashblossom’s voice shivered. “Why did you come here? Why did you wake us? Who taught you to blow the horn?”
Greychild shook his head.
“No-one taught me – I just blew it. And no-one was sleeping – I could hear you all talking up the stairs.”
Ashblossom squinnied hard through her olden eyes.
“We sleep,” she said. “We sleep till the darkness. And then we walk. Walk room to room. But you have called us with the horn.”
Then she reached up and kissed him – and her lips were soft and moist. Her lips were warm, not cold and frail like her voice.
“Come with us,” Ashblossom said and took his hand in hers as she guided him up the stairs. The waking sleepers followed them, their voices brighter now and chattering. She led Greychild from room to room, lighting lanterns as she went to chase away the shadows that massed within as dark night gathered beyond the blackness of the windows. The last room was draped out all in white, a gauze of curtains and hangings. A linen cloth covered a wooden table, and on it set dishes and bowls. Greychild picked one up and stared at the design. Ashblossom watched as he ran his fingers around the pattern. A whorl of swirling mazes such as were graven on the shaft of the horn – such as he remembered from the broken pots in the stream beside the hump-backed bridge back at Brunt Boggart.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Let me tell you…” she replied. “Let me tell you of the old times, of the time before this time, of time beside time – of time beyond, a-like when you stare into the embers of a fire and see other worlds all dancing there.”
She held up the bowl and pointed to the spiralling maze of patterns. She took his hand in her long smooth fingers.
“See as it circles. We are here. But not here, for while we are here – we are also there.”
Greychild stared at Ashblossom. The fine skin of a girlen, topped with an old’un’s long white tresses. She kissed him again and then held him in a slow embrace, which reminded him so of the soft moist stillness of the woods back by Brunt Boggart’s green – where he would walk with Dawnflower. He stepped back from her and gazed at the whorls of the bowl again.
“Tis the same,” he exclaimed. “Tis true the same as the pattern on the crockery I fished from the stream. But more – tis the same as the patterns on the wall of Ramshadow House where Thunderhead lives.”
Ashblossom nodded and took his hand again.
“Ramshadow was home,” she said. “Time before this time. We lived there and played there, shaped pots and sang, made music on harps and on horns such as the one you found in the hallway. Let me tell you…”
But Greychild held up his hand.
“Stop,” he said. “My head is spinning like a sky full of stars. Let me eat.”
And so they ate, a meal like as Greychild had never tasted before – dark berries that laid bitter-sweet on his tongue, bread as fulsome as furrowed fields, wine strong and rich, brewed from nettles and honey that made him heavy with sleep while at once wide awake.
Ashblossom explained, “Before we all recline, we set out a meal to eat when we wake. For who knows how long we will sleep? – sometimes a day, sometimes two. Sometimes a moon passes by and more… seasons and years slip away all the same. Sometimes we wake and the food is gone, nibbled and gnawed by beetles and mice. The berries are shrivelled and the bread turned to mould. Other times like this, it is waiting fresh as fresh.”
All around them the waking sleepers gorged on the food, their voices dark whispers that rose to shrill screams.
“We dream we are in Ramshadow still, playing our music and dancing in the halls. But all is gone now. Our harp-frames warped and fell out of tune. The horns grew rusty and their notes cracked and flawed. Ramshadow’s roof caved in, till all we could do was lie there and gaze at the stars through the broken rafters. We fell sick with the sleeping. But one night we could live without music no more and so we left Ramshadow for the last time, scrambling out along the paths that wove through the woods. Set out to find new clay to make new pots. Set out to cut boughs from sweet cherry trees to mend the frames of our harps. But nothing brought back the music that used to sound out from Ramshadow’s halls. We wandered and wandered till the seasons turned round and then turned round again – until we came here.”
Greychild gazed around the room. Gazed at Ashblossom’s companions, who were moving now, slowly, latched in each other’s arms, dancing to the rhythm of a music which only they could hear.
“This place seems fine enough,” he said.
Ashblossom shook her head.
“Tis not the same. Here when we fire the clay it is pale and brittle and we have dredged all there is from the pits.”
She took him in her arms again and as she pressed him close, Greychild heard the music too, as if from a far-off room. He looked once more into her eyes and then he turned away to stare at the ceiling and the walls. The whorls and mazes were scrolling there, same as before, and yet not the same. The patterns were swirling, plunging this way and that, misshapen and crooked. Greychild span around. He did not know which way to turn. In the room all the heavy-lidded eyes were staring at him as the sleepers moved closer, shuffling and muttering.
“Come with me, come,” said Ashblossom. She took his arm again and their feet rattled light down the stairway and on to the end of the hall – but when they reached the door, two watching sleepers were there waiting for them.
“Nobody leaves,” they intoned. “Nobody leaves once you have eaten.”
But Ashblossom leaned close to each of them and whispered in their ear, then she touched their cheeks with her lips and they fell fast to sleep again. And so they left the house, Greychild and Ashblossom, past the shadow of the clay-pits in the darkness outside, until they found themselves on a path all damp and oozing with leaf-mulch. The sky was dark but the moon was high and shone down on Ashblossom’s robe, so it seemed as if she lit the way as she led him in between the trees. An owl watched them with eyes as bright as two burning stars, while its wings beat slowly between the dead branches. They ran on and on until they came to an orange grove where the fruit shone like very suns.
Greychild stood shivering, his limbs trembling with excitement and fear. Ashblossom held him like she was a torch of flame that would burn, would consume him all. He gazed into her eyes again, so ageless old, so wondrous young. Same eyes as he remembered when his mother came, back in the dark wood outside of Brunt Boggart. Greychild was shaking and confused. He wanted to push Ashblossom away, wanted to hold her close. Was not his mother but seemed more like her than any girlen he’d met before. She shook her hair and stepped away. Stepped to stand beside an orange tree. There she reached out to pluck from the bough the ripest fruit that she could find. As she stretched, Greychild gazed on her arms, her face, her neck, all milky white in the moonlight. Ashblossom held out the orange, glowing bright as gold. She smiled a smile so old, so young, as her tongue licked soft about her lips.
“Eat with me and then we sleep. In your sleep, why then we dream. You can dream who you want to be with. You can dream where you want to go.”
Ashblossom stared into Greychild’s eyes. He felt himself growing sleepier.
“Nobody leaves once you have eaten…” He remembered the words of the Watchers, waiting at the door of the house. His eyes blinked. The clearing all around him seemed to swim. He blinked again. Ashblossom was standing in front of him, holding the orange in her outstre
tched hand.
“Who do you want to be with?” she asked. “Where do you want to go?”
Greychild said nothing. He knew who he wanted to be with. He wanted to be with his mother. But he wanted to be with Dawnflower too, the girlen he’d left behind beside the bridge in Brunt Boggart.
“Take,” said Ashblossom. “Take and eat with me.”
The fruit glowed still brighter as Greychild stepped forward. But as he did, so Ashblossom’s face changed. He swore twas as if Dawnflower was standing there, her tresses hanging long.
“Do not eat the fruit,” she said.
Greychild shook his head. Had he heard his friend’s words true? He took a step back, then stood root still. Dawnflower had gone. Ashblossom was still smiling at him, holding out the fruit. From far away and far he heard an owl calling. But then he heard Dawnflower’s voice again.
“Do not eat the fruit,” she repeated. “Do not eat the fruit.”
A twig snapped as Ashblossom stepped full close to him. She took his hand in hers and stood before him, holding the shining orange as if it was kissing his lips. The blue dragonflies flashed on her painted fingernails. Greychild turned his head away.
“I know who I want to be with…” he repeated, shaking his head as he did so to drive the sleep from his eyes. “…I know where I want to go. I want to travel the Pedlar Man’s Track that will take me to Arleccra where I’ll find my mother waiting for me, all in the market square.”
Ashblossom touched him on the cheek, but Greychild pushed her away.
“You are not my mother,” he said “nor even Dawnflower neither.”
“Eat the orange,” Ashblossom whispered, kissing the fruit. “Eat the orange and sleep. Then your dreams will take you wherever you choose.”
“But the dream will be only a dream,” Greychild retorted. “When I wake it will be gone and I will have travelled no further.”
Ashblossom paused and looked down.
“One bite to taste,” she whispered under her breath –
“One bite to taste
Of the fruit on the tree.
One bite to taste
And you stay here with me.”
Her voice was so low that Greychild could not hear, and so she sang on –
“You stay with me here
To sleep down the years –
If I trick you to keep you,
You’ll drown in your tears.”
The first light of dawn touched the leaves of the trees around the grove. In their branches, blackbirds scrambled, their voices urging the rising sun to climb the sky. Ashblossom’s eyes widened in panic as she watched the darkness slide away.
“One bite with me
Is all I crave.
One bite with me
Before break of day.”
She held up the orange till it glowed between their hungering lips.
“Eat with me,” she begged, as a tear of ancient salt trickled down her smooth young cheek.
Greychild felt himself sway, as if he slept on his feet. He felt hungry. He felt thirsty. The fruit was close and tempting. He opened his mouth, that his teeth might tear into the flesh of the orange, same as Ashblossom was about to do. But then he heard his mother’s voice, close at hand yet far away.
“Do not eat the fruit,” she said. “Do not eat the fruit. Nobody leaves once you have eaten…”
Greychild stopped and drew away, but now Ashblossom’s teeth gripped the fruit’s glowing skin.
“Eat with me…” she begged again as her eyelids hung heavy and her limbs grew limp. The sun rose full above the horizon. Dawn had broken and as the light touched her cheek, Ashblossom fell fast asleep and the half-bitten orange rolled from her fingers across the dew-laden grass.
Greychild stared. He felt as though his mother was there, standing with him in the grove. Then not his mother but Dawnflower, calling him back to the Green. Then he looked again at Ashblossom’s face, so old and so young, yet both at once. He wanted to kiss her, he wanted to embrace her. As the blackbirds’ voices trailed away, Greychild bent down and gathered her into his arms. Step by step he carried her back along the path, back past the clay-pits, brim full of glistening water, back to the sleeping house. All there had fallen into a slumber again, even the Watchers who had stood at the door.
“Nobody leaves…” mumbled the first. “… once you have eaten,” the other replied.
Greychild carried Ashblossom upstairs and placed her gently on the waiting bed. Her lips parted softly into a pleasured smile, but she was full asleep and Greychild knew she would wake no more, not for a night, nor a season long until a hunter came again from out of the woods to blow one ringing note on the horn.
The Daughter of the Wind
Let me tell you… Let me tell you how Greychild came from the dark woods and found a spring tumbling out of the rock. As he bent to quench his thirst he thought he felt someone sit down beside him – but when he turned round there was nobody there. He waited a while then heard a voice singing:
“You see me when the clouds ride by,
You see me when the brown leaves fall –
But when the sun climbs full and high
You scarce see me at all.”
“Who is there?” Greychild asked, as sinewy fingers ran through his hair. But no-one replied.
“Who is there?” he asked again, as the voice seemed to drift further away. But then it was as though it was beside him again.
“Who is there?” Greychild asked a third time.
“I am Mystra, the Daughter of the Wind,” said she:
“You see me when the tall boughs crack,
You feel me throw you on your back –
But if you shelter by the wall,
Why then you’ll scarce see me at all.”
Greychild turned and could just make out a wraith figure sitting beside him, laughing and giggling, though her eyes seemed deep and sad.
“My father was the Wind,” she explained. “And my mother lived on the farm, just a little over yonder. Some days I do my father’s work and some days I do my mother’s… Watch!” she said, then vanished again, but Greychild could see where she went as she flew around the clearing rattling all the leaves. Then the clouds above seemed to rush and scud. Greychild rose to his feet in amazement and thought that she was gone, but then felt her back beside him again, teasing at his scarf and tugging his hair.
“Where are you now?” he cried and held out his hand to trap her.
“You cannot catch the wind,” Mystra replied as she swung from the branch of the nearest tree.
Greychild laughed. “Why would I want to catch you,” he said, “when it’s much more fun to let you catch me!”
Then Greychild slipped off into the thicket and crept round the bushes and slithered through gorse and covered himself all over in bramble thorns. They played seek-and-hide till the sun slid from sight, then he smiled as he watched the wind-child ride by, ruffling up the grass. But soon enough she found him out and stroked his cheek and tickled his neck till his skin was covered in goose bumps and the hair tangled wild round his head.
Greychild stopped and caught her hand.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“Oh, I live here and I live there. But the Daughter of the Wind truly lives nowhere, for wherever I am, I must be gone, and wherever I fly, I’ll be back before long.”
“Take me with you,” Greychild begged. “I’m tired of my travelling and would rather stay here and play.”
Mystra frowned and took his hand.
“I do not play,” she said. “I blow the seeds to plant new trees and fill the sails for the tall ships to ride that they may plough the tide. Then I rattle the windows and wail through the locks to remind good folk they should all be in bed.”
“But that’s your father’s work,” Greychild reasoned. “What do you do when you follow your mother?”
“My mother is gone,” Mystra explained. “She pined away for want of my father. But some mornings
you see me milking the cows and long afternoons tending the fields. Then night after night weaving the yarn as if to bind myself close to the farm. But I always break free when I hear my father’s voice and I follow where he leads me as if I have no choice.”
“Take me with you…” Greychild begged again and Mystra held his hand tighter and drew him into the sky.
They flew above hills and hovered over fields. They clung to the tops of chimney pots and sang in low voices which were moaning and wild. They flew till they came to Geddum Leatherbarrow’s farm. Now let me tell you about Geddum Leatherbarrow. He had grown from a boy to a man and then taken on his father’s farm. He ploughed the fields and sowed the seeds and come harvest time he cut the corn. But best of all he gathered the apples that grew in the orchard along by the lane. He heaped them into baskets, then he took them down to the market where the wifen and the girlen clustered around, for Geddum brought the sweetest fruit of any farmer in the vale.
So Geddum was happy, but not happy at all, toiling in his fields from dawn till dusk with no wifen to come home to. But one day, sure as sure, down in the market, one of them girlen caught his eye and soon enough became his wife. And wifen fell with child and she swelled plump and ripe just as the apples in Geddum’s own orchard. And Geddum he was glad, for soon they would have a little’un who would grow to help around the farm. But when the birthing came, his wife fell pale and the thunder rolled and the rain lashed down in a lightning flash – then both were taken, wifen and child-to-be, and Geddum Leatherbarrow was left all alone again, working on his fields.
As each moon turned, every apple in the orchard ripened to black and they tasted of darkness and nightmares and bile. Geddum toiled hard to be rid of this crop, carting them away and ploughing them deep so that they might never grow again. Next spring when the blossom came, he watched and he waited till the fruit grew full and ripened russet and gold. But Geddum felt a great weariness upon him, for he missed his young wife so much he had not the strength to visit the orchard and gather the apples, and the weeds grew long in the nether meadow and the ditches were all choked with silt.
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