Brunt Boggart

by David Greygoose

  The crows croaked harshly, their voices coarse with the smoke of the street’s cowering chimneys and the fog which rose from the river.

  “What do we find there? Let me tell you… or perhaps it is you who should tell me, because for each of us it is different. I cannot dream your dreams and you cannot dream mine. But we can share them. Let me tell you…” said the Grimmancer as he slipped out into the darkness, thin as a dream himself.

  Ravenhair flitted through the twisted streets, pulling her travel-worn shawl tight about her shoulders. In the glimmer of an alleyway she saw a child in a white dress, shivering, clutching a flower. Its petals were purple, darker than blood. The child’s face was pale, as if she was dying, as if the flower which she held close was draining her life. Ravenhair stared into the child’s eyes. Saw darkness there, and hunger.

  She reached out to touch the child’s hand. The girl flinched and turned away as Ravenhair stepped closer, wishing to embrace her, to share the frail warmth of her threadbare shawl, to shelter them both against the wind which rattled salt-fevered up from the river, from across the darkness of the depths of the oceans. But then as she touched the child’s face, the girl was not there at all, but only the flower, fallen withered and still on the cold stone of the alleyway, the colour draining from its purple petals until it lay lifeless and limp. Ravenhair reached to pick it up, then sensed fetid breath on the back of her neck as a wiry hand gripped her shoulder. She wheeled around, gathering her shawl about her, and found herself staring into the Grimmancer’s face.

  “Come with me,” he smiled, and led her to the house where the crows prodded and poked, pecking at the carrion of dead rats and rotted dogs.

  The Grimmancer coughed like a crow himself, his tattered coat of matted fur clung about his frame, his ashen face distorted in a gap-toothed leer. He pinned Ravenhair in the corner.

  “Tell me your dreams,” he whispered.

  “I dreamt a child,” she cried. “A child that I birthed in the briars and the bushes all out in the wood by Brunt Boggart. I took him home and bathed him and showed him to my mother and she was pleased to see a new babe in the house and we clothed him and coddled him and then I gave him suck.

  “He grew and he played with me, till one day he ran from the door and turned somersaults all out on the Green. Then when I looked away, he found the path from the Green to the woods – and there he sported with the boys, wrestling and racing and tug-o-war. And then I dreamed of him no more…”

  The Grimmancer smiled and closed his eyes. Ravenhair slipped slowly to the floor, as drained as the flower that the girl in the alley had dropped. The Grimmancer watched, covering her over with his great matted coat. When she woke she tossed the garment to one side and wandered out through the door, not seeing the Grimmancer standing in the shadows, not hearing the racket of the crows high above.

  The Grimmancer shuffled across to the place where she had slept and then lay there too, wrapped in his coat still warm from her body, and then he slept, and then he dreamed. He dreamed the dream of the child in Brunt Boggart. Dreamt that he watched the boy as it grew, followed it to the woods where it sported with all the other boys. The Grimmancer saw all this as real as the streets of Arleccra that he traced and trailed night by night.

  Ravenhair ran from the shadows of the house into the arms of the waking dawn. She wandered dull streets and cobbled courtyards as if she was searching, as if she had lost something precious – but all the time she walked she could not remember what it was. She hurried on until she came to a wasteground, where dandelions and ragwort clustered between the broken stones. A group of children were playing beneath the empty buildings which loomed above them, their thin voices chanting:

  “A penny for your fortune,

  A penny for your dreams –

  But you cannot drink the water

  And you cannot swim the stream.”

  They ran across the rough rutted ground, their petticoats flying, caps tossed in the air as they snatched up the poppy heads and flung them into a basket.

  “Pick a poppy, slip a poppy,

  Put it in the pot.

  Pick a poppy, slip a poppy,

  Tie it in a knot.”

  One girl ran, clutching the blood-red flowers in her hand as she tried to touch an upright beam propped in the centre of the hollow.

  “Once around the kissing post.

  Twice around the tree,

  Touch the sun and back again –

  You can’t catch me!”

  She raced and raced while the others chased her, till she clung to the post and raised her basket to the sky. Then a boy made a run, but this time they caught him and all the girlen kissed him and he fell down and lay on the ground. The game went on, and on and on till the sun set as red as the flowers and only one child was left standing beside the kissing post. Ravenhair stared into her eyes, as deep and as dark as the boy she had birthed in her dream. She felt the emptiness inside her. Now she knew the words she had wanted to say – but before she could speak, the girl laid the basket of flowers at her feet. Then the other children sprang to life again and they all ran away.

  That night as Ravenhair lay in her bed, she felt the darkness press about her, but she was not asleep. Outside the window she heard voices calling as if she could hear children playing in the shadows. When she looked, there was no-one, but still she made her way down the dingy stairwell into the street, following the sound of their voices, though now all she heard was the dark wind stalking the spaces between the tall houses. Ravenhair followed. There was nobody there, the windows were shuttered but still she walked on. A lone dog loped in front of her, following the scent of a trail. She wandered through a web of alleyways where a woman stood in a doorway, dressed in a long flowing gown patterned with glowing red flowers. She fretted like a moth trapped in the shadows, running her hands across the surface of the wall, as if her fingers touched the weight of the mountains which had made the stones, the wind’s breath and the tug of the rivers which honed them.

  Ravenhair ran on through dank narrow gullies as warehouses rose gauntly on either side, so high that they blocked out the sky, the moon and the stars. Ravenhair felt trapped and yet not trapped at all, as it seemed that each time she reached a wall which stood in her way, then she rose and floated up and over, landing again in a maze of backyards. She clattered and crashed among stacks of timber, rubble and guttering, fearing that any moment someone would hear and chase her away. But nobody noticed her at all as she drifted on between crumbling outhouses and festering slop-pits, until there in Arleccra’s darkness she heard the cries of the children again, trapped behind doorways, locked behind windows. Ravenhair cradled herself in her own arms for comfort. She was not cold. She was not warm. She was not awake. She was not asleep.

  When dawn came she returned to her bed, then rose again as if she had just slept, although she had not slept at all. She spent the whole day in a waking dream. Night followed day, followed night and each night it was the same – soon as she took to her bed, she rose again and walked the streets till dawn. The moon waxed and waned until at last she wrapped her shawl about her, curled in her bed and slept. The night seemed long and terrible, not lit by any dreams, till she woke in the morning more exhausted than she had ever been before.

  The Grimmancer lay in his basement, surrounded by girls in forests dark who were not girls at all but the daughters of sinuous serpents, writhing to the rhythm of the sea. He dreamt a child who stood beside him, with flaxen hair and a ragged shirt, eyes staring wide and round. The boy clutched a spinning top painted in hoops of yellow, crimson and green, but tug as he might at the string, he could not make it spin. The Grimmancer offered to try his hand, but as he fumbled with the toy it slipped to the floor and the young boy left without a sound.

  The Grimmancer woke and shook his head. The boy was a dream, he knew it well, just as the girls who were serpents’ daughters – and yet it was as if the child was still here. He could hear laughter echoing faintly i
n the air. The Grimmancer rose to open the door and saw a spinning top lying on the floor.

  That day as the Grimmancer strode the narrow streets, he became aware of footsteps following him, scurrying, hurrying, but when he looked round there was nobody there. As he reached the top of a flight of stairs he heard laughter, just as he had when he had woken – and then as he turned to look, light footsteps hurrying away. Later in the day a voice whispered behind him, “Touch the sun and back again – you can’t catch me!” But the Grimmancer wheeled round to see no-one at all, only the blinding glare of the sun reflected from an upstairs window.

  At the end of a narrow alley, the Grimmancer spied a woman in a doorway, dressed in a long flowing gown patterned with glowing red flowers. Her frenzied eyes were alive with dreams, the Grimmancer could see them shining. But as he drew closer to touch her on the shoulder and whisper, “Come with me,” a shadow fell across his path, the silhouette of the boy-child he had seen in his dream.

  “Leave me be,” the Grimmancer moaned. “You know I have work to do.” He turned to where the woman had been standing, but she was gone. Only the rustle of her skirt and an aching shimmer of the dreams that might have been.

  “Will you let me alone, boy,” he muttered under his breath, as the rattle of a spinning top clattered away. And then the laugh. And then nothing at all. The Grimmancer stood wondering where the boy might be – was he safe and did he need anything to eat? Then he turned to the alleys again, peering into unlit doorways, looking for dreams that were not deadened or tarnished – but none could he find. Instead he strayed into a shop to part with a silver shillen to purchase his meagre supper. Without thinking, he bought not one loaf but two and a double portion of cheese and set off walking quicker than before, ignoring the shadows which lurked about him.

  When he reached his doorway he was startled, and yet not startled at all, to find the boy he had seen in his dream standing there waiting for him.

  “What is your name?” he asked gruffly. “And what do you want?”

  “I am Shufflefoot,” said the boy, then said no more, but followed the Grimmancer inside.

  The Grimmancer fussed around, spreading a cloth across the bare wooden table and setting out the bread and the cheese.

  “Eat,” he said, but Shufflefoot had started already, wolfing the food without a word, then staring about him, looking for more.

  “Here,” said the Grimmancer, pushing across his own portion. “You may have this as well.”

  Shufflefoot smiled and ate slower now, staring at the Grimmancer between mouthfuls. The Grimmancer coughed and looked around.

  “What shall we do?” he said.

  Shufflefoot pulled a spinning top from his pocket. The Grimmancer remembered the dream, that the toy would not spin – but this time the boy seized hold of the string and ripped at it hard. The top spun around into a blur of colours, shimmering gold and a dancing trace of crimson and green that became the shapes of high waving trees – and through them stepped Ravenhair, out of the woods, calling:

  “Shufflefoot, Shufflefoot, where are you? – Come home!”

  “I am here,” said the boy and ran to her, dancing and twining about and about. The Grimmancer watched as she ruffled up his flaxen hair and combed it again, then pulled the black ribbon out of her own hair and knotted it into his, before clapping her hands and untying it again, bunching back her long dark tresses.

  “This is the ribbon my Grandmother Ghostmantle gave to me – and not for you to play with!”

  Then Ravenhair looked at the Grimmancer, as if she had not seen him standing there in the shadows. The boy stood awkwardly between them.

  “Whose child is this?” she asked.

  “Whose dream did he come from?” the Grimmancer replied.

  “You stole my dreams,” said Ravenhair.

  Shufflefoot scuttled suddenly and plucked at the door.

  “This child is a dream no more but here true as true,” the Grimmancer reasoned. “He followed me here today, and here he must stay. But you must stay with me too and help me to tend him and feed him.”

  And so Ravenhair stayed with Shufflefoot in that dream-raddled house. She dressed him and fed him and each day racked through her head for more games to play. The Grimmancer stayed awhile, but soon enough he began to slip away each day to return at night with a different stranger, whispering… “Tell me your dreams…”

  Some dreams delighted young Shufflefoot, full of laughter and dancing and sweetmeats dripping with honey. But some dreams were darker, of a sharp-beaked crow and a lumpen stone and a man shackled to a wheel, until each night Shufflefoot would lie and cry until Ravenhair rocked him to sleep. One morning the Grimmancer woke, still riding a dream of a distant isle where creatures sported, their eyes glowing bright as burning coals, their backs as smooth as polished horn. His eyes were wild and troubled as he paced the room, roaring at Ravenhair and berating young Shufflefoot until the boy screamed and covered his ears and ran through the door before Ravenhair could stop him.

  “He is gone,” she said, “our child.” But the Grimmancer scarely heard her as he continued his ranting, plagued by a land of ice and blood where pale birds circled the sullen sky, singing with voices pure as snow.

  Ravenhair left him alone where he sat, pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders and set off through the streets.

  “Shufflefoot! Shufflefoot!” she called his name.

  But “Shufflefoot… Shufflefoot…” came echoing back. No child could she find in the maze of dim-lit alleyways, until at last she caught a glimpse of him, standing alone at the end of a sun-filled street. She raced towards him, but as soon as he saw her he ran away. When she turned the corner she realised he was not alone but out on the wasteground between the towering buildings with the children all about him, their petticoats flying, caps tossed in the air as they sang:

  “A penny for your fortune,

  A penny for your dreams –

  But you cannot drink the water

  And you cannot swim the stream.”

  “Shufflefoot, Shufflefoot – come to me,” Ravenhair cried, but it was as if he did not hear her. He was with the children now and they whisked him away, turned him away, all through the dandelions and ragwort, all across the uneven ground strewn with broken stones.

  “Pick a poppy, slip a poppy,

  Put it in the pot…”

  The chant went up and Ravenhair watched as the basket of bright red flowers was flung to Shufflefoot and he ran, jerking and twisting, to try and make his way to the upright beam which stood at the centre of the hollow.

  “Once around the kissing post…” they shrieked. “Twice around the tree…” as Shufflefoot ducked and dived and twisted and span until he tripped down onto the cold hard ground. The children froze, motionless, as the clatter of the streets fell silent and across the empty wasteground a girl in a white dress came. In her hand she held a flower, its petals purple, darker than blood. She walked in a rhythm slower than breath until she stood before Shufflefoot as the other children watched, and placed the purple flower between his clasped hands. As Ravenhair stared, unable to move, the colour drained from the flower and as it faded, then Shufflefoot was gone too and the children sprang back to laughing, chasing each other and singing:

  “Pick a poppy, slip a poppy,

  Put it in the pot.

  Pick a poppy, slip a poppy,

  Tie it in a knot.”

  Back at the Grimmancer’s house, Ravenhair closed the door.

  “I have no dreams now,” she said.

  “We are each other’s dream,” the Grimmancer replied, but Ravenhair pushed him away.

  All about the room hung tattered rags and shrivelled flowers, slivers of glass and tarnished bones.

  “These are your dreams, not mine,” she said.

  Shufflefoot’s spinning top lay between them on the floor. Ravenhair picked it up and tugged the string, but it would spin no more. From far away and away, she could hear a boy’s voice ca
lling:

  “Once around the kissing post.

  Twice around the tree,

  Touch the sun and back again –

  You can’t catch me!”

  Ilania

  Let me tell you… let me tell you – Greychild met Ilania on the ragged wasteground where buddleia hung in bruised bunches and brambles snagged between the broken walls. She sat cross-legged, her ashen face framed by flying hair as a host of cats crept all about, watching and waiting, their heads turning each time she moved.

  A dark wind blew through the beds of dank nettles and the cats became restless, stalking and crawling, prowling and yowling as they chased the dead petals of lurid red poppies.

  From the harbour came the creak and yawl of tall ships shifting on their moorings, while beyond the wasteland rats scuttled through the overflowing gutters and the smell of rotting sewage clung to the air.

  “Let me tell you…” said Ilania, “in this city every step we tread has been trodden before. Each footfall touches someone else’s memories till our limbs begin to ache with their sorrow and their voices rise in our throats. We turn endless corners until we stumble on ourselves coming the other way – but we never recognise who we are.”

  A gaggle of shadows shambled by dressed in old shabby tunics, hauling a trawl of tattered nets behind them. As they walked, they rolled and swayed as if the sea still swelled beneath their feet.