Ravenhair felt full of life as she ran around the courtyard, letting her long wet hair flow free while Ashblossom watched and smiled, cupping water through her hands as she sat at the edge of the pool.
“Come,” she said and led Ravenhair again, back along the corridor of mirrors. This time they walked slowly, chatting intently about anything they thought of and nothing at all, so that Ravenhair hardly noticed that when she glanced at the mirrors, all that she saw was a woman and a girl. The deer and the mare, the wolf, the fox and the eagle had gone. Instead, just a corridor, serene and white, and the sound of one harp playing which seemed to come from everywhere and anywhere, but nowhere that Ravenhair could see.
They arrived in a spacious dining hall where a meal was set on the table. Ashblossom gestured Ravenhair to be seated. Ravenhair lifted the cover from her plate and was surprised to find her favourite meal of dumplings, chicken and thinly sliced parsnips.
Ravenhair looked over at her companion’s plate. It was piled high with fruits and fancies so brightly coloured and giving off an aroma which she’d never smelt anywhere before. When the meal was over, Ashblossom patted her lips delicately with a starched white napkin.
“Now,” she said to Ravenhair, “I’ll show you to your room.”
She led her up the marble stairs, along another corridor and into a small white room. As soon as Ravenhair was inside, Ashblossom kissed her once on the forehead.
“Sleep well,” she said and closed the door.
Ravenhair stood and gazed around. The bed was low and narrow but looked soft and comfortable and was covered all over with a silver eiderdown. Ravenhair stretched and ran her fingers through her long dark hair which was nearly dry now – so she decided to tie it up again, ready for the night. She reached into her pocket for her long black ribbon, but the ribbon wasn’t there. She searched her other pocket – and then she remembered that she had left it hanging over the wall of the fountain.
Ravenhair stood up again.
“I’m sure Ashblossom won’t mind if I just go down and get it,” she said to herself, but when she tried the handle of the door she found it would not open. She twisted it this way and that and realised the door was locked. She crossed the room to the window. It was covered by long black curtains, already drawn, so that Ravenhair had no notion whether it was dark outside or daylight still, or maybe was just turning dusk. She tugged at the curtains and they parted gently, but to her surprise she found not a window but a mirror staring at her. Ravenhair smiled at the face in the reflection and began to twist at a strand of her hair, still wishing she had her ribbon with her. But the face that smiled back was not her own but Ashblossom’s pale features.
Ravenhair gasped, but the face in the mirror made no response, just stared at her, steady and unblinking. Ravenhair took one step closer to see what she was seeing. Perhaps there was no mirror, but really a window after all and Ashblossom was on the other side. But no, Ravenhair could see the rest of the room clearly reflected: the bed, the walls, the tightly locked door. And as she stepped forward, so Ashblossom retreated, further and further, back into the reflection of the room. Ravenhair watched her go, but as she watched, Ashblossom changed. Her legs grew longer, her back arched forward. Her face extended until she was not a woman but a deer. Not a deer in a forest, running free, but a deer here in this room.
Ravenhair turned quickly but the room was empty. She turned to look in the mirror again and the deer began to tread the floor, and as she did so, she felt herself rise up taller and her mottled coat turned from brown to a vivid white. She raised her head and gave out a cry, the cry of a mare that needs to run free, as she tossed her mane and her eyes flashed wild, then turned darker than dark. And her coat was grey and shaggy and she howled an anguished howl to the moon which she could not see, and then crouched down again, her belly and her long red tail pressed vixen-tight to the floor.
Ravenhair was deer, she was mare, was wolf and vixen. Until none of these anymore as she felt herself rising, intense and powerful, to the top of the room. She watched in the mirror as her wings beat there, eagle-proud but trapped in the space beneath the white ceiling. And then she heard a knocking on the door. She landed softly on the bed and sat there, breathless and shaking, clinging on to her dress which hung around her like a cloak of sweat as she heard the sound of the key in the lock and the door swing slowly open. Ashblossom stood there in her long blue dress, a curious smile on her face.
Ravenhair didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure if Ashblossom was her, or whether she was Ashblossom, and where all the creatures had come from. And so she just nodded and said nothing at all as Ashblossom smiled and closed the door behind her and left. But this time she didn’t lock it and Ravenhair rushed across the room and drew the black curtains over the window which was a mirror. She was too tired and confused now to want to go looking for her grandmother’s ribbon and so she pulled back the silver covers of the narrow bed, and without even bothering to undress, fell fast asleep between the cool crisp sheets.
The next morning Ravenhair woke, her long black hair tousled all around her, across the soft white pillow. She sat up and stretched. She was still in this room. Light seemed to spill from beyond the curtains, but she did not want to open them. She was sure it must be morning, but suddenly realised she could hear no sound from outside: no birds singing, no rain, no rattle of wheels passing in the street. No voices anywhere, not from outside nor here in this house.
She tiptoed to the door and tried it. To her relief it opened easily and she stepped out into the corridor. The walls were white and pale and the floor felt cold beneath her feet. In the distance she could hear the harp playing again and hurried quickly down the stairs towards it. One door stood open at the end of the corridor and Ravenhair saw it was the dining room where she had eaten the night before. The table was set for breakfast, but this time only one place, which she assumed must be for her. There was no sign of Ashblossom anywhere.
Ravenhair lifted the silver cover to find a dish of porridge, just the way she liked it and gobbled it up before anyone could stop her. The harp music swelled louder and seemed to be leading her away from the dining room, with its sparkling lights and crystal chandelier, into the corridor of mirrors. But she did not see the creatures there. She did not see Ashblossom in her long blue dress. She did not even see herself, just the plain white walls of the corridor, stretching on and on.
Ravenhair hurried as quickly as she could until she reached the other end. The music stopped. There was a door before her painted dark blue and covered in a pattern of stars. Ravenhair paused then opened it. For a moment she thought she saw Ashblossom sitting there, cradling the moon in her hands and staring intently at nothing at all. Ravenhair opened her mouth to speak, to offer her greetings, to thank her for sheltering her and giving her food, to ask her what she might do today. But before the words could form themselves, Ravenhair realised the room was empty. Just a scatter of cushions with bowls of brightly coloured sweets left temptingly around. Ravenhair tried one but its taste was bitter and she spat it out again.
Her head was spinning now as she ran away down the corridor. Each led to another one and as she ran she glimpsed room after room decorated sumptuously and filled with all manner of brightly painted toys, musical instruments, embroidered dresses and flowing robes – everything she might wish for. But Ravenhair felt trapped. She wished that she had not come here at all. She wished that she was running free, back in the fields at Brunt Boggart.
The harp played on, louder and louder. Ravenhair only wanted to escape, to find her way out to the streets again, to breath fresh air and find her way to her room in the lodging house at the other end of the city. She rattled at windows which were all painted white, but none of them would open. She tried door after door, but each one led to another room until she was at the end of the very last corridor. Before her stood one last door. She seized the handle carefully and slowly pulled it open.
She stepped out into a garden.
Not a wide elegant garden, such as she thought might surround a house like this, but a small overgrown back yard, filled with nettles and dock leaves and tall straggling daisies. From the other side of the wall she could hear the sounds of the city morning – the cries of the market vendors, the clatter of wheels, the chatter of birdsong. Ravenhair rushed to the rusty gate and quickly flung it open and raced, as fast as ever she could, out into the noise and hubbub of the street.
As she looked back, she felt puzzled. She thought she might see a splendid white mansion rising above the narrow buildings. But all she could see was a shabby door, leading to a narrow house, just like the door she had passed through the night before.
Ravenhair shrugged and rubbed her eyes. As she pushed through the crowded market stalls, vendors grabbed at her, trying to sell fish so fresh she could taste the brine, oranges brighter than the sun, yams as long as her own right arm. Ravenhair hurried on. She had no money for any of this. She just wanted to get back to the lodging house. But then she paused in front of a stall that sold bracelets and pendants and shiny rings. Hanging from the awning was a mirror. Ravenhair hardly dared to look in it, fearing what she might see. But she caught sight of a girl, just a girl, just herself, though her hair hung long and matted from when she’d washed it in the fountain the night before and slept with it uncombed on the bed in the mansion’s room.
As she raised her hand to run her fingers through the tangled tresses she realised that her ribbon, the dark black ribbon that Grandmother Ghostmantle had given her, was still lying where she had left it on the wall beside the fountain, back in the grand surroundings of the house.
“Can I help you?” asked the stallholder, a small gap-toothed man who dangled a handful of bracelets before her. Ravenhair shook her head. She wasn’t interested in trinkets, she only wanted the ribbon her grandmother gave her. She had to go back to the house again, no matter how much she had wanted to escape. She pushed her way suddenly away from the stall, so quickly that some of the women stared after her, wondering if she might have stolen a trinket from the counter.
But Ravenhair didn’t stop to answer their cries. She ran through the jostle, fled from the market to the festering silence of the dull narrow streets. But which was the street where the grand house had been? And how would she know it? Ravenhair looked all around. The streets were just a maze now – there was no way of telling which way she had come. And then, from the entrance to an alleyway littered with rotting oranges, a creature came tottering on long spindly legs. It lowered its head and gazed at Ravenhair with huge dark dewy eyes. Ravenhair stopped in surprise. It was the deer she had seen in the mirror the night before. Ravenhair gently stroked the animal’s neck and fondled its long soft nose. The deer gazed longingly at the girl, then reared up its head and jerked away. Ravenhair followed. She realised the deer was leading her, away down the narrow street towards the house where she had slept the night before.
The deer began to move faster, turning first one way then another until Ravenhair found herself running, scampering after the creature who did not look back, just kept moving faster, faster than Ashblossom had taken her the day before.
Ravenhair stopped. She was out of breath. The deer had turned another corner. Ravenhair took one gasp of air then rushed on to find just another narrow street, but the deer had gone. Ravenhair sat down on the nearest step, gasping and panting. Her head was spinning as she looked around. She must be closer to the mansion house now, but despite the deer’s help, the way was no clearer. Ravenhair hung her head in despair, her long black hair sweeping down to the ground.
What could she do? Ravenhair parted her hair from her face and looked up – and to her surprise saw a tall mare standing there, nostrils flared. The mare shook her withers and tossed her mane as Ravenhair gripped her neck and swung up onto her back.
The horse pranced and bucked and then cantered away with Ravenhair hanging on tight to the mane. They seemed to be turning back along the way Ravenhair had come. Which one was right and which one was wrong? Had the deer led her astray or was the mare trying to trick her? They galloped on, faster and faster as the morning sun beat down on the windows of the houses until they gleamed like an avenue of mirrors, and in each mirror Ravenhair saw Ashblossom riding on a pure white horse. Each time she glimpsed her, she looked the same, but she looked different, first smiling that stern fixed smile, then laughing, then crying, then pleading and begging and beckoning Ravenhair to join her, but then throwing up her arms to send her away. And then the horse stopped. They had left the houses far behind and returned to the gaudily painted tents that stood at the quayside by the river where Ravenhair had first met Ashblossom. The crowds of beautiful women and children were surging out again, holding up their silken robes to stop them trailing in the mud.
Ravenhair dismounted and patted the horse. She was curious to see inside the tents and lifted one of the ragged flaps. A face stared out at her, a face dark and strong. Ravenhair recoiled as the wolf sprang out, forcing her over, its breath hot and fierce on her face. The wolf pinned her down but as Ravenhair struggled a spark came into her eyes as if she was back in Brunt Boggart again, by the hollow on the Green with the boys. And there they would wrestle and there they would play while the boys learned their strength and the girls tested their ways. So this was not wolf, she said to herself, was Crossdogs, was Bullbreath, was even Greychild – and Ravenhair had the measure of them all. And so it was here by the river – with one thrust of her foot, Ravenhair pushed the shaggy beast away. Howling, it slunk back into the tent. When Ravenhair turned around, she saw a fox stalking silently away, turning its head as if expecting her to follow. But before she could move, Ravenhair felt a rush of wings. The fox had gone. Ravenhair began to run, away from the river and the quayside and the tents.
As she ran, the eagle plunged and swooped around her. The flap of its wings cracked the air like a clap of thunder. Her arms beat in front of her face, trying to drive the bird away. But the bird dived again. Ravenhair stopped in despair. She was shaking, she was shivering. Then she felt a hard horny grip about her shoulders. Felt the eagle’s talons graze her flesh, but gently, as if no hurt was intended. The great bird swept her slowly above the rooftops and the air rushed by as its wings beat hard and strong. Ravenhair smiled. The streets slipped by below her, but just as she began to enjoy the flight, the eagle let go.
Ravenhair looked back, startled. The bird was wheeling away into the clear blue sky above the maze of streets and she began to plummet down towards the chimney tops. But then she spread her arms and she felt a warm belly of air pillowing beneath her. Her legs spread behind her and she began to glide, flying slowly and strongly. The streets lay like a map beneath her as she floated. She looked down and there below her she saw white roofs and walls and guessed this must be the mansion house. Ravenhair descended gradually, landing with a spring before the steps to the door. She smoothed down her skirt and took a deep breath, then rattled the knocker firmly.
The door swung open. Ravenhair raced up the steps. Nobody was there. She rushed inside, eager now to see again the corridor of mirrors, the bed chamber, the fountain where she had washed her hair. She realised she was hungry. Perhaps there would be food again laid out on the long white table in the middle of the dining room. As she stepped through the door, it creaked shut behind her. Ravenhair blinked. It was dark inside. Dark and dingy and dusty. She found herself in a narrow passageway. The walls smelt damp. Cobwebs clung to the low ceiling. The paintwork was musty and peeling. Ravenhair shivered and sneezed.
Where was the corridor of mirrors? Where were the bed chamber and the dining room? There was no harp music now, only the dull hand of silence. Another door hung half-open. Ravenhair peered through. It was a kitchen, a tiny kitchen. The shelves were stacked with peeling packages and decaying food. A mouse skittered across the grimy floor. One stray fly buzzed up to the broken lamp which hung from the ceiling. In the corner sat a woman. It was Ashblossom, still smiling that same fixed smile.
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“Come in,” she said. “Don’t be afraid.”
Ravenhair stepped forward. Their eyes met.
“I knew you’d come back,” said Ashblossom.
Ravenhair nodded.
“I knew that this was what you wanted,” and Ashblossom turned around to reveal the ribbon dark as night tied tight into her own white hair which hung over her pale slender shoulders.
Ravenhair nodded again. “It belonged to my Grandmother Ghostmantle,” she said. “She gave it to me when I was a child and I have worn it all my life.”
As Ashblossom’s nimble fingers picked at the ribbon and she let her hair fall, their eyes met again in the mirror on the wall. Her face was Ravenhair’s face. Ravenhair gasped. Her fingers scrabbled through the tresses that tumbled over her shoulders.
“Who are you?” she begged Ashblossom, who was girl, who was woman, who sat there before her in the fading light.
Ashblossom held out her hands and replied.
“You are what I have been. I am what you may be. Like you I came to this city empty-handed.” She handed Ravenhair the ribbon dark as night. “Now I have everything and nothing at all.”
Ashblossom looked away. From the top of the shadowy house, a harp began to play.
The Grimmancer
“Let me tell you…” said the Grimmancer as he sat in the empty house gazing up at a raddle of one-eyed crows who squawked and squatted along the open rafters, hobble-legged and broken-winged. “… let me tell you – there are places in the world where you have never been. I have never been there either, as long as I have lived. So far as I know, no-one has been there. So how do I know about them, you ask?
“Let me tell you… I have dreamt them. I have met people who have dreamt them. I have dreamt about people who have dreamt them. And so they are real, as real as our dreams – and our dreams are as real as our waking. Our waking is hazy and dread and dull. We drudge through the days to wait for our sleep. But our dreams come alive. Our dreams are filled with bright colours and laughter. And in dreams we visit the places in the world where we have never been.”
Brunt Boggart Page 31