“Father…!” they cried, jumping up to greet him.
Greychild swung them round in delight and found himself calling each of them by name in a rasping voice which he had never heard before. Then the children fell silent. Behind them stood a woman with her back to them all, stirring a thick stew in a large copper pot.
“So you’re home,” she said in a dull leaden voice. She turned around and looked at him. Greychild held out his arms to greet her, thinking that if the children knew him then she must know him too. But she flinched away and her eyes looked down more like a frightened creature. Greychild reached out to touch her but she turned back to stirring the pot.
An anger turned in his gut that she might mistrust him this way. A darkness gathered in his head bleak as the clouds rolling in from the hills. A thunder rose in his throat until he heard a voice roaring and bellowing off the smoke-scorched walls that was not his voice at all.
He turned and saw the children, who had greeted him so gladly, scatter away to hide behind the dresser in the corner of the croft. His fists bunched up and then fell loose again, tightening and clenching as he fought with words he did not recognise and felt the silence of the woman at the stove with her back turned mute against him. The silence gouged inside him into a knot of pain which he could not untie, could not wrench away, until he strode once more out through the door and shook his fists at the sky and let out one long and terrible cry which echoed to the hills and back again. When it died away, he heard the voices of the children, singing in the kitchen:
“Here are stones,
One, two and three.
Feel the stones –
What do you see?
One for you
And two for we.
Feel the stones –
What do you see?
Two for you
And one for we.
Three for you
And none for we.
Feel the stones,
What do you see?
None for you
And three for we.
Here are stones
All set around.
See them lying
On the ground.
Feel the stones,
What do you see?
Here are stones,
One, two and three.”
Greychild wanted to rush and join their game, but soon as his hand touched the latch, the singing stopped and he heard them scuttling away. He knew he was Greychild no more but the crofter, who had lived here all his life, trudging the hills in search of lost sheep and coaxing a lean crop of bitter roots from out of the shallow soil raked around the door. And as he stood outside, alone and chill, the wind swirled in from the hill and he heard the crofter’s voice inside his head.
“Grannock’s eyes are blind,” it said. “Grannock cannot see. He wanders the mountain, howling silently. Grannock cannot see, and yet he sees inside our eyes, sees the fear that we see – fear of slash of wind, fear of lashing rain. Fear we will never leave here. Fear that the childern will grow hobbled, crippled, lame. Fear that the hill will crush us, though it is the hill which gives us home. Grannock sees all this in his blindness. Grannock feeds on fear. When he is sated, Grannock will sleep. But Grannock never sleeps. He wakes again to roam again in crack of lightning, sluice of rain. He is the tears which never fall. He is the knot of aching hunger. He is the fear which binds us here. He is thunder. He is blizzard. He is pain.”
Greychild slept strange that night, dreaming another man’s dreams of mist fret and lightning strikes and a cold wind blasting through shattered trees. And he dreamt of Grannock who roamed these hills, formed of mist and formed of sorrow. Each day the crofter would stalk this creature, though it was his own fear that he followed. Dreamt that he must tame him and dreamt that he should ride him, across the sky and away from the mountain where the rain lashed down and the dark mists harried.
At dawn Greychild woke while the others were still asleep and scraped out a thin gruel of oats from the bottom of a blackened pot. And then he set out, following steps he did not know and yet familiar and sure, searching for Grannock in the skirl of the hills.
On one side rose craggy mountains, on the other a rolling waste of brush and heather. Greychild hung his head. His belly sank empty already, feeding on churlish anger. A veil of rain fell all about him, until he could see the hills no more, only the darkness of the crofter’s dreams. But then he wiped a hand across his face and felt the rain had ceased. Greychild stood on top of the crag.
He felt Grannock coming, felt him at his back. Turned to face him, though he could not see him – and then Grannock was all around. Grannock seized him in a wheel of wind that near took his breath away. Grannock’s voice was raging in his ears, but loud as Grannock roared, Greychild summoned up his strength, strength of tree-root, strength of wing-beat, and Greychild let loose his own voice into the force of Grannock’s gale. The wind continued, but Greychild’s lungs were strong, and as he sang, another voice joined him. It was the voice of the crofter, the man he had become. And their voices rang together as they sang, till soon there was a third voice which stood with them true – and Greychild knew the voice, had known it all along, that within their own voices lay Grannock himself. And so they shouted long, three voices joined in one. Shouted down the thunder, the hailstorm and the rain. Shouted down the hunger, the darkness and the pain.
And then Grannock was gone and Greychild was all alone as he hurried back to the croft, his feet racing before him and his shadow chasing behind. When he came to the door it seemed to fall open and the cold dark room was filled with light. The crofter’s wifen greeted him with arms outstretched and the children danced around him, each one holding a smooth white stone in the cup of their hands.
“Here are stones,
One, two and three.
Feel the stones –
What do you see?”
The children sang as they capered and tumbled, calling him to join them.
“One for you
And two for we.
Feel the stones –
What do you see?”
Greychild took the stone from the eldest’s outstretched hand.
“Two for you
And one for we…”
—the chant continued as Greychild took the second stone.
“Three for you
And none for we…”
—the chant concluded. Greychild took the third stone.
“Don’t be afraid,” he told them. “Grannock is wind and Grannock is darkness – but only this and nothing more. If you do not fear him, then there is nothing to fear at all.”
Then Greychild seized the stones and thrust them in his pocket and raced away and away again, back along the path that would take him to the cairn where he had first seen the croft. He placed the three stones carefully around the others in the stack. He felt the rhythm of the hill, moving slow beneath him.
He looked up and shook his head. There was nothing at all, only the roar of the wind. But then he saw the crofter, standing before him, his weathered face all lined and smiling. He offered Greychild a drink from a leather bottle. Greychild drank deep of the cool fresh water, but when he looked again there was nobody there, only a swirl of mist. He stood on the hillside’s green moss and peered into the distance, but no path could he see and no croft. He slung his pack upon his back as he set off along the track. Above him a glimmer of light struck through the cloud as from far away he could hear the voices of the children, all singing:
“Here are stones
All set around.
See them lying
On the ground.
Feel the stones,
What do you see?
Here are stones,
One, two and three.”
Jessimer
Let me tell you… let me tell you, in the dark garden the flowers glowed bright as the sun and butterflies flew as large as Greychild’s hand, their wings all sparkling with turquoise and azure. Between gleaming rocks
flowed glistening streams that rippled beneath low hanging trees whose fruit shone full as lanterns. Here on a rock was a girlen whose dress hung long and golden. Greychild sat down beside her and saw that in her lap she held a basket.
The girlen smiled with sparkling eyes.
“My name is Jessimer,” she told him.
“What do you keep there in your basket?” Greychild asked.
“It is a basket of desires,” Jessimer replied.
“What do you desire?” Greychild asked as she lifted the corner of the linen cloth which covered the top of the basket.
“Here let me show you,” Jessimer smiled as Greychild slipped his hand under the cloth. Inside the basket was warm as new laid eggs. He felt a fluttering of wings, like the feathers of a baby thrush soft against his fingers. He felt flowers which thrust as soft as silk. And then from beneath the linen of Jessimer’s basket, Greychild pulled out a peach. Its flesh was firm and golden and he knew it would taste sweet.
Jessimer smiled and gazed at him.
“I can see that you are thirsty. I can see that you wish to eat.” Then she snatched the fruit away. “But you must wait another day.”
Greychild tugged his jacket around his shoulders and went on his way until he came to another garden, where all around bloomed purple flowers whose thorns gleamed sharp as silver knives. As the last light faded, the flowers became black shadows and through them trailed an old woman, her skin as pale as the moon. As she moved she did not speak, but seemed to be singing a high wordless harmony, although her lips did not move. She smiled as she glided between the flowers, beneath the skeletons of trees. Greychild sighed and breathed in the sweet perfume that the flowers breathed out.
“Tell me, what do you keep in that jar you are carrying?” Greychild asked the old woman.
“It is a jar of memories,” she replied.
“What do you remember?” Greychild asked, as the old woman opened the jar.
“Here, put in your hand,” she smiled.
Inside the jar was cooler than shadows. Greychild felt a blind moth’s wings brush against his fingers. He felt shrivelled leaves which turned to dust and a trace of forgotten tears. And then he drew out an apple, its skin all withered and weather-worn.
“This was the first apple that I ever tasted,” the old woman explained. “I’ve carried it with me through sunshine and rain, but I know I’ll never eat it. Here – you may keep it.”
Greychild took the fruit curiously, though he wished it was the peach which Jessimer had shown him.
He thanked the old woman and bade her farewell then set off once more along the Pedlar Man’s Track until he came to a third garden where mirrors hung from the boughs of the trees and span slowly around. Everywhere he looked he saw reflections of the sky, and every mirror was painted with an eye which watched his every move.
From behind a bush he heard a mother’s laughter. Could it be his own mother, come to find him again?
“I can see you!” she cried and then dashed out, but before Greychild caught sight of her face, she hid again. Greychild knew this must be a game and so he knelt behind a tree.
“Mother, mother, I’m here,” he called. “You can’t catch me.”
As soon as he heard her coming he called again and ran and she ran too, until at last Greychild knew that game was enough and stepped out into the sun to find himself staring into the face of a woman he had never seen before.
“My child!” she cried as she ran towards him.
Greychild stood still, waiting to be embraced.
“I thought I’d never find you,” she scolded, then rubbed her eyes and gazed at Greychild.
“I thought you were some-one else,” she said.
Greychild nodded. “I thought you were too.”
He looked at her slowly.
“What do you keep in your apron?” he asked.
“It is filled with regrets,” the mother replied.
“What do you regret?” Greychild asked again.
“Here, put in your hand,” she told him.
Inside the apron was a twine of string, a pitcher of milk and a wooden spoon. Then Greychild drew out a damson. Its flesh was firm though its skin seemed drawn.
“Tis a damson I keep and mean to eat,” said the mother, “but I never have the time. You look as though you must be hungry. You may take it with you on your journey.”
Greychild smiled and put the fruit in his pocket where it nestled beside the withered apple that the old woman had given to him. But as he set off along his way, he still dreamt of the peach which Jessimer had shown him.
Soon enough and soon he came upon a house nestled under the trees. The door frames and windows were buckled and botched and the chimney so twisted the smoke coiled out crooked as a corkscrew. As Greychild watched, the old woman who had given him the shrivelled apple came hobbling up the path. She drew a key from the jar that she carried and unlocked the door, then quick as slow, she slipped inside. He was just about to set off again when he heard footsteps approaching and the rustling of a long golden dress. Greychild held his breath, for it was Jessimer sure as sure, who brushed past him in the twilight, pulled a key from out of her basket, unlocked the door and went inside.
Now Greychild he was curious, for he longed to see Jessimer again and so he hid behind a tree to watch this house where she must live. Before too long he heard the mother coming, still calling out for the boy she could not see. She took out a key from her apron pocket, opened up the door to the house and then she too vanished inside.
Greychild settled down to sleep, still dreaming of the peach which Jessimer had shown him. In the morning, just as the first birds began to sing, Greychild woke to see the door of the house swing open. Who should come out but the old woman and she went tottering off all down the path, carrying her jar with her. Before too long the door opened again and out came the mother, still wearing her apron and calling for her long lost son.
Now that they were gone, Greychild knew that Jessimer must be in the house alone – and so he stepped up and rapped on the door. There was no reply and so he knocked again, but then to his surprise he saw that the door was not fully closed. As he pushed it open, there inside was a passageway leading to the foot of the stairs. He called out full loud, “Jessimer!”
He heard the sound of starlings rattling and scratching up on the roof – and then his voice echoed back to him, all turned around and twisted. Greychild tiptoed up the stairs, expecting that he would find three rooms – one for the old woman, one for the mother and one for Jessimer herself. But to his surprise, there was only one door standing ajar. Greychild peered inside, thinking he would find Jessimer sleeping there, but all that he saw was a freshly made bed, a jug and a bowl on the dresser and a vase of faded flowers on the shelf.
He called out again, but came no reply, only the gentle patter of rain against the window pane. Greychild scratched his head.
“If three women come in and only two go out, then where can Jessimer be?”
He knocked upon cupboards and searched for secret doors, even lifted the lid of the linen chest, but twisted and crooked as this house might be, he could find no dusty corners where Jessimer might be hiding. Greychild sat himself down at the table in the kitchen, for he was hungry now after all of his searching. He plunged his hands into his pocket to find the damson and the shrivelled apple that still nestled there. He switched them about and about on the scrubbed wooden table top.
“Which should I eat?” he pondered.
First he tried the apple that the old woman had given him. Though it seemed shrivelled and worn, he found that inside the fruit was sweet. But soon as the juice touched his tongue, why then he spat it out, for it had turned sour again. Then he tried the mother’s damson, for though its skin was weary he could feel its flesh was firm. But when he tore it open, he found the stone was blackened and so he pushed it aside. Greychild was more hungry now than ever before and wished that he could eat the golden peach which Jessimer had shown
to him before she snatched it away.
Just then he heard a footstep on the stair and the door swung slowly open. Who did he see standing there? I know what you are thinking – wherever she had hidden herself, could only be Jessimer now – for he had seen the other two women leave the house as soon as dawn had broken.
Greychild blinked. Twas not Jessimer at all, with her golden peach beneath the linen of her basket – and not the old woman nor the mother neither. Twas a little girl who was standing there.
“What is your name?” Greychild asked.
The girl turned around and smiled.
“My name is Jessimer,” she said.
Greychild scratched his head.
“Then who is the girlen with the golden dress and where is the old woman who carries a jar and the mother who calls for a boy she cannot see?”
Jessimer turned round twice again and stared at Greychild as she winked and smiled.
“Nobody lives here,” she said. “Nobody else but me.”
She reached out and took Greychild by the hand.
“Come with me and you’ll see!”
She led him in a spinning dance, all up the stairs and down, through the kitchen, in the hall, out the house and in again. They twirled so fast as Jessimer laughed all through that twisty house, they sent it whirling round and round till suddenly it vanished.
Greychild stood, catching his breath. The house was gone and the fruit gone too which he’d left upon the table. The old woman was gone and the mother and the girlen, who had all been Jessimer all along. Greychild was standing alone on a bridge and beneath its shadow the water flowed as quick as slow.
Across the bridge was an island where the trees were smothered all over in blossom, and out of the shadows stepped Jessimer, the girlen in the golden dress. She smiled and she beckoned, calling Greychild to cross the bridge and join her, singing:
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