“Bury me in earth,
Drown me in water,
Burn me in fire,
Spin me through air.”
But as soon as he set his foot on the boards, the leaves of the trees turned golden and fell, and he saw the girlen grow older, until soon she became Jessimer the mother, singing:
“Bury me in water,
Drown me in fire,
Burn me in air,
Spin me through earth.”
Jessimer the mother was belly-full, swollen as a pod about to burst. As Greychild watched she squatted down and gave birth there to a babe. When he looked again the mother was gone and the babe was left alone and alone, but as she stretched she grew and grew, just as the tree broke into bud – and she became Jessimer the child again, running here and running there and calling Greychild to chase her, singing:
“Bury me in fire,
Drown me in air,
Burn me in earth,
Spin me through water.”
But Greychild did not move, for fear that she might trick him – and for sure, soon as she disappeared behind a tree, just as the branches turned frozen and bare, she stepped out again as Jessimer, the old woman, singing:
“Bury me in air,
Drown me in earth,
Burn me in water,
Spin me through fire.”
Greychild blinked and watched her there as she grew older and frailer more, until she lay full still. Greychild waited to see whether she would move and then took one step forward to help her. But as he trod upon the bridge, the tree snapped and broke and fell to the ground. The old woman was gone, the mother and the girlen too – returned to the gardens where Greychild had found them: the garden of darkness lit with desires, the garden of thorns all sharp with memories and the garden of mirrors filled with regret. Greychild stood a moment and wondered, then turned around and there he saw Jessimer the child again – an apple, a damson and a peach cradled safe in the cup of her hands.
Milkthistle
Let me tell you… let me tell you – on the horizon Greychild spied a cottage no bigger than the tip of his thumb. But though it was far away, this cottage glowed warm and welcoming. He could see the firelight glinting in the windows and a plume of smoke rising from the chimney. But walk as he might, the cottage grew no closer, and every time he looked, it still seemed no bigger than the tip of his thumb. And then as he turned a bend in the lane, the cottage was gone, lost behind the trees. Greychild sighed, for he was weary hungry and would like to reach there before nightfall. He walked this way and that, following the winding track, scrambling through ditches, scaling fences and gates. Every now and then he spied the cottage again, but still it grew no closer as twilight crept around him.
Darkness fell, the darkness of a night that has seen no moon, but Greychild walked on – and then of a sudden the moon appeared from behind a cloud and there was the cottage standing before him. Greychild pushed open the door to find not a kitchen but steps leading down to a dimly-lit shop, all dingy and dark. He stumbled forward blinking, till his eyes could see through the gloom. Before him was a wooden counter, all laid out with painted eggs, each one a world in itself – of forests and villages, cities and mountains. Behind them sat a line of straggling straw dollies, watching him with bright berry eyes.
Then his hand chanced upon a scarf of maroons and purples, moss green and black, all picked out in threads of silver and gold. He let its silk run through his fingers as the curtain at the back of the shop slowly opened and there stood a woman. Greychild held his breath. In the dim light she looked so like his mother as he remembered her, stepping through the shadow of the trees in the forest, come to bring him food.
He could not speak, did not know what to say. His hands were shaking. But as the woman stepped forward he saw that this was not his mother at all, though her face smiled kindly out of the shadows.
“I am Milkthistle,” she said.
Her long dress was pale, as pale as her face, like as if the sunlight never reached her. Outside Greychild heard the rattle of carts across cobbles, the call of skirling gulls as they twisted and harried, a surge of harsh voices hurrying by and from away and away the creak of tall masts moored at a quayside.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“This is Arleccra,” Milkthistle replied. “Have you come alone?”
Greychild nodded, still trailing the silk of the scarf through his fingers.
“I need this,” he said, “to give to my mother. I’ve come here to find her.”
Milkthistle smiled.
“That costs a silver shillen,” she told him.
Greychild shuffled his feet.
“Got no shillen,” he said. “Got no pennies neither. Never had no need of ’em. Been living out in the hills and the ditches and sleeping under the sky.”
Milkthistle eyed him.
“Mayhap I can help you. Come with me and you can have any scarf that you choose.”
Greychild followed through a maze of narrow streets, back alleys and courtyards where the sun could never reach. Each overhanging row of tenements housed more people than ever lived in Brunt Boggart. They piled on top of each other, door on door, window above window – and down in the dank dirty basements below. Crying in the dark and shivering. Hunting for slops and whimpering. Trawling the gutter for scraps as he had once rooted through the woods for fallen fruit and hidden truffles. But their eyes stared wildly. They had seen no trees, they had heard no song birds, buried deep in their own sullen shadows.
Milkthistle led him on and on until at last they came to an unlit house standing tall and dark where she fumbled with a bunch of keys.
“Come in,” she cried. “Come in,” and ushered him into a shadowy hall. There they climbed the creaking stairs until it seemed they must be at the very top. She unlocked another door and led him into an attic room where the ceiling sloped so low that they both had to stoop.
“Sit down,” she said.
Greychild looked around, then perched on the edge of a narrow bed. As Milkthistle paced up and down the centre of the room, Greychild wondered where were the scarves that she had promised him. But then she threw open a wardrobe door and a cascade of fine clothes slithered onto the floor. She snatched up britches, a tunic and a cape, all of them cut from the smoothest brushed velvet.
“Put them on,” she instructed.
Greychild looked away. He was used to girlen plaiting ribbons in his hair, but had never seen such finery as this before.
“Come,” Milkthistle smiled, her eyes all glowing as she wrenched the shirt from Greychild’s back. Slowly by the light of the moon that stole through the attic window, Greychild stripped away his travel-weary clothes and pulled on the britches, the tunic and the cape.
“Stand!” Milkthistle commanded.
Greychild rose to his feet, ducking his head as he did so, to avoid the low beam of the ceiling.
“Turn!” she cried, grabbing at his elbow and spinning him about, this way and that.
“Now you are my boy,” she said. “Come with me.”
And she brought him back down to the street again, where she led him around like a dog on a lead through the hustle and shove of the night market where the stalls were a-glitter with all manner of frippery, lit by low hanging lanterns and the flare of flaming torches. All eyes turned to watch him as they peeked and they peered, they laughed and they sneered till Greychild felt like as though he was WolfBoy again, newly come to Brunt Boggart.
They came to a narrow alleyway lined from one end to another with stalls loaded down with all manner of sweetmeats and pies. Greychild’s mouth started to water for he was sore hungry, but Milkthistle dragged him away.
“This is not for you. You will eat soon enough, back in your room.”
Back in his room, Milkthistle closed the door on him. He heard her keys jangle on the other side. Greychild looked about. There was no food. Perhaps she was preparing a meal in the kitchen downstairs, he told himself. Sure enough, he soon
heard the rattling of pans and the smell of a hot rich stew drifted up the stairwell.
Greychild sat on his bed and waited. Outside he could hear the braying of the hawkers and from the half-open door of a tavern the wheeze of a hurdy-gurdy and the rhythm of a drum. Greychild pressed his face to the window, but all he could see was row after row of chimneys and roofs stretching away to the masts of the boats on the harbour. He felt the hunger knotting in his stomach. Downstairs he could hear the rattle of pans as Milkthistle ladled out a bowlful of stew. Greychild sat upright, waiting for the sound of her foot on the stairs. He trembled inside, just as he always had when he lay in the wood and waited for his mother. But same as night after night his mother would not come, so Milkthistle did not come now. Instead he could hear the scrape of a spoon on the side of her bowl downstairs in the kitchen and he could almost taste each mouthful of the stew as she ate.
Greychild paced up and down, like a WolfBoy true, trapped in a cage. He rattled the handle of the door, but the lock held tight. He tried to pick at the catch on the window, but that was shut fast. He let out a wail, a long howling cry and flung himself back on the bed. There came a knocking under the floor as Milkthistle beat the ceiling of the kitchen beneath him with the handle of a broom.
“Be quiet up there,” she cried. “Now you are my boy, you’ll do what you’re told!”
“Not your boy,” muttered Greychild. “Not no-one’s boy at all.”
And he ripped off the tunic, the britches and the cape and pulled back on his travelling clothes all caked and matted with mud.
The door flew open.
“Ungrateful boy! How dare you? – I made these clothes for you!”
Greychild said nothing but sat in the darkness as the blows from her broom rained down about his head. And then she was gone. The door was closed again, bolted and locked. Outside the window Arleccra was silent and all he could see was a small patch of stars. Same stars as he’d watched in the wood at Brunt Boggart. Same stars as he’d trailed down the Pedlar Man’s Track. But now even the stars were dark as the clouds rolled across, heavy with smoke. Mist swathed the city and Greychild slept.
He woke in the half-dawn and there in the corner of the room he saw something move, something shift beside the curtain. Lurid and white, the size of a rat, its body was soft but covered in a hard horny shell. Two pincers groped blindly then it scuttled away, leaving a trace of its stench behind.
The door scraped slowly open. Milkthistle stood there, dark-eyed and scowling. Greychild pointed.
“There was a creature – there in the corner.”
Milkthistle shook her head.
“There was, I saw it,” Greychild insisted. He showed her where it had sat, described how it scurried away.
“Wicked boy!” Milkthistle retorted. “There are no scabbindgers here. This is a clean house. I scrub it myself on my hands and knees. The scabbindgers stay away. They do not come here. They go to other houses. The moon draws them out from the wainscots, out from the gutters. They come from the sewers, but they do not come here. There are no scabbindgers in this house!”
Greychild stared past her. The scabbindger had returned. It was sitting in the corner watching them, as if it might suck out their very thoughts. Milkthistle turned. Greychild looked at her face. It was as if she could see the creature, and yet not see it at all.
“There are no scabbindgers here,” she repeated as she turned from the room, slamming the door.
Greychild sat on the bed for a while till finally the scabbindger scuttled away. The shadows of carts sailed across the ceiling carrying bales of fine cloth up from the docks. Then he noticed the door. The door stood half-open. Milkthistle had not locked it when she left him before. Slowly Greychild crept out onto the landing. A floorboard creaked. He heard scuttling and scurrying in the walls, under the floor. Another scabbindger shot out of the darkness and vanished through a crack in the floor. Then came another and another one, two. These did not vanish but followed each other into a room.
The door hung ajar. Greychild peered inside. There on the bed lay Milkthistle. Her ashen dress was rumpled and her hair tangled wild. She stared past him with fevered eyes as her flesh crawled with scabbindgers, her arms and her legs, crawling and scuttling to settle on her neck. Greychild stared into her eyes, but she gazed straight past him as she writhed on the bed, a pale smile on her lips.
Greychild ran down the stairs, to find the heavy front door bolted and locked. He beat his fists at the panels, scrabbled with his fingers – but he was trapped. He turned and saw Milkthistle waiting for him, rattling her keys at the top of the stairs.
“You can’t get away,” she told him.
And then she smiled and led him back to his room. All of the scabbindgers had gone. Sun shone through the window. She fed him eggs and oatcakes seasoned with herbs and spices such as he had never tasted before. She sang to him as she washed him down with warm soapy water from a bowl, then dressed him again in the tunic and britches and sat down beside him on the bed.
“There,” she said. “Now you are my boy. You would not want to run away. You would not want to run, for if you did – Gobbeth would get you.”
“Who is Gobbeth?” Greychild asked, peering out of the window.
Milkthistle shivered. A shadow of panic passed through her eyes.
“You would not want to meet Gobbeth,” she said. “Gobbeth roams these streets day and night. He never sleeps. His face is hidden by a mask of leather set all about with jagged wire and thorns. If he kisses you, your lips will be torn, your cheeks ripped and scarred and your eyes gouged out.”
The next day Milkthistle dressed Greychild again, this time in new clothes, a green velvet cloak and a hat with a peacock feather. She led him out about the streets, waving to one and all and bidding Greychild to doff his hat to every lady who passed them by. Greychild did this with a surly scowl until she cuffed him about the head.
“Smile when my friends smile at you. Do what I say!”
And Greychild smiled. He smiled until his face was aching and then he smiled some more again and swept his hat so low that the feather trailed in the dust.
“Pick it up!” Milkthistle hissed. “Not like that!”
Greychild sighed and followed on behind her. The streets were not so busy now. They passed empty warehouses, the windows barred and boarded. A gang of sailors jostled beside them, singing raucous songs.
“Stay close by me,” Milkthistle snapped. “And watch out for Gobbeth, he roams this way. He goes wherever he pleases, for he is wild and free.”
Greychild closed his eyes. He remembered a wood by a middling village at the foot of a tall misty mountain, at the back of the river next to the meadows where the grey geese gathered. He remembered Crossdogs and Ravenhair and wished they were with him now.
Milkthistle grabbed him suddenly.
“Stay close by me,” she pleaded.
There before them stood Gobbeth, his face a mass of thorns and wire, razorblades dangling from each ear. He did not move. Greychild stared. Milkthistle’s screams echoed back along the deserted street as she ran, leaving Greychild to face Gobbeth alone. Greychild stood his ground, then dropped into a squat, his palms spread open.
Gobbeth lunged towards him. Greychild side-stepped and turned. Gobbeth towered over him. Greychild wished now Crossdogs was here, to protect him the way he always had back in Brunt Boggart.
Gobbeth laughed. Greychild paused. The laugh sounded familiar to him, like warm wind rippling through swaying trees. Gobbeth pounced. His breath close and heavy behind the mask of wire and thorns.
Then he pulled the mask away and there was only laughter, filling the street as the two boys wrestled in a swirl of joy, bearing each other down to the dust. They laughed and laughed and laughed full more until their very jaws were sore.
“Crossdogs!” Greychild exclaimed beneath his breath. “Crossdogs… what are you doing here? You’ve not turned to Gobbeth – the boy they’re all afeared of?”
Crossdogs laughed again.
“Nothing to be afeared of there. First day I came here Gobbeth leapt at me out of an alleyway. But he was no match for a Brunt Boggart lad. Weak as a puppy, soon as I gripped him. Ripped the mask right off his face. He was all pale and trembling beneath. Looked in need of a meal. So I put on his mask and watched how everyone stayed out of his way… what of you?”
Greychild explained how Milkthistle had trapped him and promised him a scarf.
“But she ran off soon as she saw you. She’s frit scared of Gobbeth.”
“Here,” said Crossdogs, fastening the mask around Greychild’s face. “You’re Gobbeth now.”
“I’m Gobbeth now!” Greychild cried and before Crossdogs could stop him he raced away.
As he dashed down crowded streets, women and young children cowered in doorways and watched him go by, until he made his way back to Milkthistle’s door. There he beat both full and loud.
“Gobbeth – what do you want with me?” Milkthistle begged, wide-eyed.
“Give me the scarf which you promised to Greychild.” The voice growled hoarsely from behind the mask. “He wants it for his mother.”
“Do not kiss me, Gobbeth,” Milkthistle begged as the wire and thorns brushed close against her cheek. “I will give you anything if only you leave me alone.”
She closed the door quickly and Greychild heard her running up the stairs then scrambling back again. She threw the door open and stood there, a long silken scarf in her hand. She smiled as she twined it round his neck then slowly looked him up and down.
“Take off your mask,” she said. “For I see by your cloak of green velvet that you’re not Gobbeth at all.”
Greychild lowered the mass of wire, thorns and leather.
“True – I am not Gobbeth. But Gobbeth sent me here. Gobbeth said you must give me the scarf, and I must return this cloak and this hat, for I am Greychild, born in the woods and not your boy to lock in a room.”
Brunt Boggart Page 28