Gulls swirled around, shrieking at the crows, then the grey-necked geese drawn in from the mud-flats. The birds meshed together in a skirl of bone and feather, driving the children up the long gang-planks and onto the boats where the geese strutted the decks while the crows and the gulls perched up in the rigging, spitting tongues of fire which set light to the sails. The ships hauled away, all out of the harbour, wreathed in flames and yet not burning at all as the children stood on the deck and waved to the crowd clustered there on the quayside while the horn-backed creatures turned to girls who were not girls at all but the daughters of sinuous serpents, writhing to the rhythm of the sea.
Marsh Brunning played on, wilder and louder. Then first came Homminy, beating a sheep’s bladder, making one and all roll laughing with the wisdom of his wit – then Whisper, who straightway lit not one torch, but two and three until a whole fistful whirled around as he tossed them in the air and caught them. He spun around and around once more then plunged one plume of flame full deep into his throat. He pulled it out, a blackened stick – then opened his mouth and the flames shot up, lighting the faces of the gathering crowd.
Slipriver stood tall and elegant all on her one leg as she threw first wooden discs, then cups and spoons then balls of ice high up and higher into the sky.
Marsh Brunning played on, delving out a melody that he used to play, back along the flat-lands, as Downfeathers stood beside him, singing clear and high:
“Here is the shadow
That follows the wind.
We know where she’s going,
We see where she’s been.
Now that we’ve found her,
She turns to the sun,
Which will hold you so tightly
When you are alone.”
At that Marsh Brunning set aside his hurdy-gurdy to embrace Downfeathers, then Slipriver, Whisper and Homminy – and finally Hobknockle and Lumbucket the bear who came ambling through the crowd to greet them all. They placed down the five stars they carried: the star of twisted twigs, the star hewn out of stone, the star of hammered metal, the star of plaited rushes and the star of pure light.
As the points touched each to each, Marsh Brunning stepped into the very centre of them all, his knotted fingers quivering still as his breath hung white in the cold night air. Greychild stood and watched as this breath took shape and first it seemed like a tree in blossom and then it seemed like a sudden fall of snow. And then on the quayside it was like a sheep that had lost its way and was sheep no more but changed to a naked man, running and running and running until he fell to the ground as Marsh Brunning turned the wheel once more and his hurdy-gurdy let out a sighing sound.
As he turned, the sky above them spun around and around and they were not on the quayside no more but back at Brunt Boggart, all down on the Green. They were all there, the boys-who-would-be-men: Hamsparrow and Bullbreath, Larkspittle and Longskull, Shadowit, Scarum, Scatterlegs and Crossdogs too, as if he’d never been away. And the girlen singing in a ring: Silverwing, Moonpetal, Dawnflower and Duskeye, Scallowflax, Dewdream and Riversong – with Ravenhair linking onto Crossdogs’ arm. Old Granny Willowmist and all of the old’uns, Nanny Nettleye and Old Nanny Ninefingers – while Snuffwidget ran amongst them, serving up Corbin Night-thorn’s Morning Sunrise and Oakum Marlroot stood and glowered.
From the midst of them all, Thunderhead rose and brandished his staff while Skyweaver caught up the tune on his fiddle and the Drummer set in with a familiar rhythm. Marsh Brunning played on and on as each and every one of them all began to sing:
“When five stars shine as one
The journey has begun,
All the way down the Pedlar Man’s Track
To take us here and bring us back –
To help us find all that we lack.
Moon of Sky and Moon of Earth,
Moon of Blossom, Moon of Blood –
Lead us onward as we run,
Now the journey has begun,
To help us find all that we lack
To take us here and bring us back –
All the way down the Pedlar Man’s Track.”
And then they stilled, as the moon above them rose. Marsh Brunning stepped forward.
“I know this place,” he said. “I came this way an age ago. I know this Green, these cottage rows. I know the dark woods that lie beyond the fields, where I’ve tarried a while and a while.”
Slowly he struck up a melody and Greychild joined in, for it was the tune to the song his mother sang when she brought him food out under the stars: “Coddle me, coddle me, my darling son…”
Greychild stepped forward to stand beside him.
“Did you find a girlen here?” he asked, trembling at the thought. “And did you leave her to fend for herself, same as she left me?”
Marsh Brunning sighed as he placed a hand on the young lad’s shoulder and looked him in the eye.
“On and on,” he said at last. “On and on…”
* * *
Let me tell you…
when we are asleep, we are not asleep. The dreams are real. The waking is a dream.
Let me tell you
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Eleanor Rees for editorial advice, encouragement and support and to Freda Davis: The Original Blue Ball Press Moon Calendar for information on the naming of the moons; to Cate Simmons for original artwork; Mandy Vere and all at News From Nowhere bookshop, Liverpool; Ellis Delmonte at Hawkwood Books for his insight, enthusiasm and dedication.
About the Author
DAVID GREYGOOSE was born near Northampton and now lives on the edge of Liverpool. In 1976 he co-founded The Windows Project which runs writing workshops in schools and community venues. He has published three collections of poetry under the name Dave Ward, and his stories and poems have appeared in over 100 anthologies as well as being broadcast on TV and radio. Brunt Boggart is his first novel and was nominated for the CILIP Carnegie Medal.
Copyright
Pushkin Press
71–75 Shelton Street
London WC2H 9JQ
Original text © 2015 David Greygoose
Original artwork © 2015 Cate Simmons
Brunt Boggart was first published by Hawkwood Books in the UK, 2015
First published by Pushkin Press in 2018
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ISBN 13: 978–1–78269–210–2
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