Brunt Boggart

by David Greygoose

  At night the rain came and slaked the slates from his roof, till Geddum would lie and stare at the starless sky and dream of his wifen dead and their child who was never born. Then when he slept, another child came, the one I told you of, the Daughter of the Wind. She wailed around his house like a creature in pain, till Geddum woke again and went out to see what the howling was, but he knew well as well ’twas only the wind – and returned to his bed to rest at last. But he slept so deep that the day slipped away, and as he slept, so Mystra came and snatched every apple from every tree in his orchard and dashed them to the ground, while Greychild watched in dismay.

  “Why do you do this?” he asked, but Mystra only smiled.

  “It is what the Wind, my father, does – and so I do it too.”

  And before he could stop her, Mystra ran on, hither and thither all about the farm, knocking down fences and ripping off guttering, like as if she was a terrible storm. Greychild didn’t know what to do. What would you do if you were caught up by the wind? Would you try to fix her harrying? Greychild watched as the farm door swung open and there stood Geddum Leatherbarrow, looking on in despair.

  “Stop!” cried Greychild. “Enough is enough.”

  But Mystra had grown tired from all the damage she had done, and settled down lightly at Greychild’s shoulder.

  “Watch now,” she whispered into his ear, “and see what Geddum Leatherbarrow will do.”

  Geddum Leatherbarrow shook his head and surveyed the damage done.

  “Worse as it is and worse as it gets, then just gets worsen again,” he moaned as he stared at the broken-down fences and his apple orchard’s branches stripped bare. But then he jutted his jaw and clenched his fists.

  “Wifen and child are taken away and will never come back no more. But fallen fruit and broken fence – these I can fix for sure.”

  He rolled up his sleeves and set to work and soon every apple was gathered in and stowed away in baskets. And then he fetched his mallet and set to mending the fences.

  “What now?” asked Greychild. “Do we wait here and watch him? I need to make my way back to the track.”

  But Mystra was standing, suddenly taller, and not afraid to be seen.

  “Come away,” pleaded Greychild, “come away with me. Your work here is done. You’ve set Geddum Leatherbarrow back on his feet, and he has mended his farm.”

  But Mystra shook her head.

  “Oh no,” she said, “my work here has hardly begun.”

  That night as Greychild watched, she blew in through Geddum Leatherbarrow’s broken roof and whispered soft in his ear.

  “Who’s there?” cried Geddum, suddenly waking.

  Look as he tried and look as he might, he could see no-one at all. But he could feel the Wind’s daughter close by his side as soft and gentle as the very night when he first took his wifen as his bride.

  “You see me when the clouds ride by…” Mystra murmured in his ear. “You see me when the brown leaves fall – but when the sun climbs full and high, you scarce see me at all.”

  And they lay together, Geddum Leatherbarrow and the Daughter of the Wind, as she whispered soft and true.

  “Don’t ask me now who I might be – but I know you need someone to help you – mending barns and tending the fields. This work I can do, and if you’ll take me, then I am my mother’s daughter and I’m the woman for you.”

  But what of Greychild? – I know what you’re asking. He stayed around the farm for a while and a while, almost a wraith himself. He watched while Mystra worked the fields, same as her mother had done. He watched while sometimes she would straighten her back and peer up into the sky. And then he thought she might fly again, just as she had done when she brought him here. But no, she seemed content to return to her work, with Geddum Leatherbarrow close by her side.

  At last one night Greychild caught her, as she made her way back from the orchard.

  “What of me?” he pleaded. “What am I to do, now that you have brought me here? Won’t you take me back to the Pedlar Man’s Track?”

  Mystra looked up. At first she smiled a smile, as if she was about to fly through the trees and the bramble thorns, playing hide and seek again. But then she shook her head and turned her eyes away.

  “My work is here now,” she said. “My days of mischief are done. I cannot play catch with you anymore. You must continue your journey alone.”

  Ludditch and Scrunt

  Let me tell you… Let me tell you… Crossdogs peered through the overhanging trees as the stars began to beckon. Where had he come to now? A day’s walk from Brunt Boggart was all that he could reckon as he followed Greychild down the Pedlar Man’s Track. The sun was gone, the moon was rising. His feet were blistered, his limbs shaking, as a cold wind blew from the distant mountains. Crossdogs heard the night come whispering through the shadows of the wood. Where could he shelter? Where could he sleep? His belly was empty, his legs were aching.

  He sat in the middle of a thicket. Darkness flooded his eyes and soon he was asleep. But no sooner asleep than Crossdogs woke again, shivering. He gazed around the clearing. Damp grass and brambles etched sharp and grey in the moonlight. The owl that he had heard before clattered closer now as he felt his teeth chattering in the breeze. Crossdogs wished he was back at home in his mother’s cottage, wrapped up warm in his blankets.

  A slender birch bent to brush his cheek and he felt as though it was the soft touch of Ravenhair’s hand. He thought he heard her voice again, begging him to return. Felt her arms twine around him, supple as the birch tree’s branches. Felt her kiss slip across his lips as she tugged at him, leading him back to the path which led to Sandy Holme – where she told everyone he gave her a root all twisted and gnarled, like as if it was a Wolf’s Claw, though he knew full well she found the root herself and all he’d ever given her was a daisy and a rose. Crossdogs stared at the pale moon’s ghost spilling through the clouds, as he stroked the branch of silver birch till the light flooded through him soft as milk and the dark wind came howling out of the trees. But Crossdogs slipped into a sweet deep sleep as he heard the voice of Ravenhair and all the other girlen calling through the trees –

  “Come home, Crossdogs, come home.”

  As soon as dawn broke, Crossdogs rose quickly. He was shivering and cold as he stood there shaking, the dark wood behind him. He bunched his fists and clenched his teeth. He scanned all around, like a kestrel, like a fox. Suddenly saw a plume of smoke rising.

  “Where there’s smoke,” Crossdogs reasoned, “there’s fire. And where there’s fire there’s warmth. Might even be food.”

  And it was food he wanted most as he blundered off down a narrow stony path. Food for his belly which gripped like a fist and twisted at his guts. He struggled on towards the smoke which seemed to grow more distant with every step he took. Then just as his guts had become so hungry he felt sure they might eat him whole, a shadow fell across the path and a lad stood there in front of him – as tall as Crossdogs and taller and yet not as tall at all.

  “Now then,” the newcomer challenged him.

  “Now then,” Crossdogs returned.

  They bared their teeth in wary smiles.

  “Where been going?” the lad enquired.

  Crossdogs pointed towards the plume of smoke rising away in the distance.

  “Nowt there,” said the lad. “Where been come from?”

  Crossdogs pointed back towards the Pedlar Man’s Track.

  “Brunt Boggart,” he told him.

  The lad spat on the muddy path and muttered something under his breath which Crossdogs could not catch. The two boys stared at each other. Crossdogs’ stomach growled inside him, begging him to ask for food. But Crossdogs would ask for nothing. He looked the lad up and down.

  “What been name?” he asked.

  “Sapwood,” the lad replied.

  Crossdogs offered his hand in greeting as the men in Brunt Boggart always did. But Sapwood ignored him. Perhaps here, by this village, the
y greeted different, Crossdogs considered. Sapwood stepped towards him. Crossdogs held his ground.

  “This is Ludditch, not Brunt Boggart. You don’t belong here. What you come for? Can you fight?” Sapwood demanded as he took another step closer, staring at Crossdogs.

  Crossdogs stared back. Sapwood looked strong as him and stronger, yet not so strong at all. He was lithe, but scrawny and thin. His eyes flicked quick as a rat’s.

  “Can fight,” Crossdogs countered evenly. “Can fight Bullbreath and Hamsparrow and Longskull. Could fight Oakum Marlroot if’n I had to.”

  “Don’t know none of ’em,” Sapwood said and took one step closer. They stood there now, toe to toe. They breathed each other’s breath. Could sense each other’s sinews tensing. A lone dog howled away in the trees by the smoke where the village must be.

  “Don’t know none of ’em,” Sapwood repeated. “But I know someone’d fight you.” He stepped away. Crossdogs followed, curious, not a-feared, but hungry true and true. Followed Sapwood through a gap in the trees where the path wandered blindly, grown thick with nettles and scagging brambles. Sapwood pushed back a low-hanging branch. The leaves blocked Crossdogs’ view for a moment, but then he stepped out into a straggle of cottages more near like huts stood in a squint-eyed circle around a green which was not green at all but a rut of dull mud.

  “This been Ludditch,” Sapwood told him.

  The houses were squat and scowling. Roofs hung thick with moss and the eaves leered low while out from each window peered eyes that had never seen Crossdogs before. Skinny urchins stepped forward to stand in the doorways and behind them old crones glowered from the shadows. From around sunless corners and out of dank gullies, tall men shuffled with fists big as hams. All of them staring at Crossdogs as he stood beside Sapwood – staring as if he was Wolf or some other wild creature fetched in from the woods.

  Crossdogs stared back and stood his ground, clenching his fists the way his stomach was clutching from lack of food and trying not to let any of them see the way his legs were shaking, not with fear but through hunger and cold.

  “Who be this?” One old’un stepped forward, poking at Crossdogs with a finger long and bony.

  “Be Crossdogs,” Sapwood explained. “Found him out there, up by the Pedlar Man’s Track. Says he’s a fighter.”

  “So why don’t you fight him then, Sapwood my lad?”

  “Says he’s a great fighter. Fought plenty and more, back in Brunt Boggart.”

  Another of the old’uns spat on the ground at the mention of the name.

  “Didn’t want to spoil the sport,” Sapwood continued. “Thought as should be Scrunt who fights him. Same as he’s fought all the great fighters before.”

  The old’uns nodded. There was a hush and then a mutter ran through the crowd, repeating the name again and again.

  “Scrunt… Scrunt… Scrunt!” till the sound became a chant and then a thunderous roar.

  Crossdogs’ eyes darted round. He tensed his muscles, clenched his fists. Where was this champion they were calling for? The crowd gathered round, in their broken hats and skanky coats, old’uns drawing tatted shawls around their shoulders, grinning and whistling through blackened teeth. Crossdogs was alone in the middle now, his boots slithering and sliding in the slippery mud. But where was Scrunt? Crossdogs peered around again, dizzied by the surge of faces.

  And there he was, Scrunt. Not tall as he’d imagined. Not lithe and firm of muscle, but a squat old man with a gap in his teeth and a squint in his eye, stripped to the waist and circling Crossdogs around and around. Crossdogs made to shake his hand but Scrunt slapped it aside, spat on the ground and lunged. Crossdogs’ breath was knocked from his guts. The old man was stronger than he expected and stronger still again.

  They locked arms as Crossdogs dug in his heels, the hunger and the weariness forgotten now as he felt his limbs filled with the fire of the fight. Scrunt shoved, heavy and stubborn as a boar. Crossdogs shut his eyes, determined, as his feet wrestled to fix in the slip of the mud. Scrunt grunted and groaned. Crossdogs looked down. Not a man at all but was a boar, sure as sure. Crossdogs felt the hot breath, the rasp of his tusks – and sprang back. But the boar had gone. Crossdogs switched around. Must be man again. He could take him now. Soon he would tire, soon as soon. Was an old man after all and Crossdogs was young. But where had he gone?

  The crowd were chanting on. Their voices grew louder as dark rain lashed down.

  “Scrunt… Scrunt… Scrunt…”

  The mud was sliding under his feet. But Scrunt, he had gone. In his place stood a fox. Crossdogs sprang forward. Had fought fox before, out in the woods. Grabbed at the shivering body, the brush of the tail. But Scrunt was gone again.

  “Who’m I fighting now?” Crossdogs brayed, clenching his fists and staring up to the sky as the rain raked his face and the voices of the crowd roared on.

  “Scrunt, Scrunt, Scrunt, Scrunt…” like as if they were pigs.

  Crossdogs caught sight of Sapwood, the lad who had brought him here, watching from the shadows, cunning and sly. Crossdogs wished he could drag him out, pitch against him in this ring. Least be a fair fight. Same height and age. Not this old man who was not man at all but kept on changing. What was he now? Crossdogs turned round.

  There stood a young man he knew and did not know at all. Not Sapwood – he was still slinking behind the old’uns round the edges of the crowd. No – this one’s hair was matted, his shirt ripped and torn, his boots bent and broken, just as Crossdogs’ own. Crossdogs latched on to him, scuffling and scurrying.

  “Got you now,” he said. “You’ll not move this time. You’ll not shape-shift and fly. Now I find who you truly are, I can hold you and match you. We’ll see now who’ll win!”

  They locked hard and tight like two brothers in battle who’d grown up together and hated and loved the same as the same. Their faces pressed close as they wrestled and slithered, their dark eyes staring wildly, one into the other.

  “Scrunt!” the crowd exclaimed.

  Crossdogs pulled back.

  “Don’t believe’em no more. Just tell me your name.”

  The other pulled back the same, shaking and breathless. He pushed the hair away from his face so Crossdogs could see him.

  “You know me,” he whispered. “I’m Crossdogs. Same as you.”

  What could Crossdogs do? He matched himself strength for strength, grip for grip. Every move he made he already knew. When the other Crossdogs stumbled, then so did he. When the other Crossdogs tripped, then he tripped too. He could not win. He could not lose. What to do?

  Crossdogs drew breath. His leg bent beneath him, same as it always did. Never let anyone know when he was fighting, but his left leg was his weak leg. Always had been since he fell from the branch of an apple tree where he’d been scrumping when he was a boy. Bullbreath had nearly beat him once when he’d kicked him there, but Crossdogs had fought back. Now he fought back again in the slip of the rain. Caught the other Crossdogs full force on his left leg. Knew that if he be Crossdogs true, then he would surely fall. But other Crossdogs just shook it off. Now Crossdogs knew, this could never be him.

  “Tell me true,” Crossdogs gnawed the words into the other’s ear. “What be your name?”

  But Crossdogs stepped back as Crossdogs stepped back and then slowly grinned and offered a hand, and as they shook, Crossdogs felt his own hand in his own, but then was not a hand, was fox and then was no fox but boar, breath hot as hot, then was Scrunt and the crowd was cheering. Crossdogs drew himself up as tall as tall and Scrunt embraced him again. Could taste his breath, could feel the pain of the fight as the hunger coursed back and his knee felt to buckle, to fold into the mud. But he held on to Scrunt, as Scrunt grinned up at him.

  Then was not Scrunt no more but other Crossdogs again. And this other Crossdogs cast him down to the ground as the crowd roared and cheered. “Scrunt… Scrunt…” calling his name. Crossdogs looked up from the mud. He had lost. He knew that. First fight
in his life. He shook his head and watched as the villagers carried their champion away. Was not Scrunt had defeated him, he reckoned. Scrunt could not do it. Boar could not do it. Fox could not do it. Only Crossdogs. None but himself. How could he win? How could he lose?

  His eyes wheeled wildly around, picking out Sapwood standing there. The scrawny lad nodded.

  “You said you could fight,” he accused.

  “Should have said I want food,” Crossdogs replied, scraping lank hair from his face as he glanced this way and that over his shoulder.

  “Could have won if I wasn’t so hungry!”

  “We can give you food,” Sapwood told him. “Eat, drink – then I take you to the Track. But no going back. Put Brunt Boggart behind you. Scrunt guards the place where the paths cross. He’ll not let you return.”

  Crossdogs shook his head and drank deep from the bottle which one of the old’uns held out to him. His head was spinning but he could hear voices far off. Greychild was calling him and Ravenhair too. He could hear them on the wind. As Sapwood led him away up the path through the trees, Crossdogs turned once to look back at Ludditch, at the ring of squat cottages. In the centre of the circle of dull trodden mud stood a young man with lank hair, his shirt torn from fighting, watching him go.

  The Sister in the Water

  Let me tell you… Let me tell you about Aylsa. Her hair was dark as Ravenhair’s – remember now I’ve told you. Aylsa lived alone and alone in a cottage all huddled up under the hills. Each morning she would wake and walk among the briar bushes, gathering the strands of wool that she found snagged on the teeth of the thorns. At night she would wash this wool in a bucket, rinse it and swill it in the cool clear water, comb it and twist it betwixt her long fingers. Then she’d sit by the light of the lingering moon, hunched over her spinning wheel and reel out fine lines of plaited wool.