The Green Children of Woolpit

by J. Anderson Coats

  “Almost a year?” I whisper.

  “You did poor Martin in at the harvest,” Glory replies coldly. “It’s nearly May Eve.”

  There is no time beneath the mountain, Granny would say. A day can last a year, or a year can go by in an instant.

  When spills out before me. Under the mountain there were two revels. Two days and two nights, and here there were days and se’ennights and months. Of course they think something happened to Martin.

  But what about me?

  “I did nothing to him!” I struggle, but Glory’s grip is iron. The house at the top of the path stands silent. No one comes out to see what’s going on.

  “Martin disappeared at the same time you did,” Glory says through her teeth, “and children do seem to suffer when they’re in your care, Agnes Walter. Besides, if you did nothing to him, where is he? And don’t you dare tell me he’s just playing nearby.”

  The truth will sound like a tale. Girls don’t simply disappear and then reappear out of nowhere without a scratch on them. Boys don’t vanish without a trace. I need a story and it can’t be the truth.

  “He . . .” I cast about as words go everywhichway. “He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Glory pulls in a harsh breath. “So you admit it. You killed him.”

  “No, he — ”

  “Whoever was keeping you killed him,” Glory cuts in, “and you helped. Now you’ve come back, blood all over your hands, and you think Milord won’t stretch your neck? Even if he doesn’t, do you think Woolpit will just let you stay?”

  My heart is rabbiting everywhere. One wrong word and I’ll be dragged before Milord. Glory’s da is the reeve. He’s put the mask on me before. I can absolutely see him in a black hood, dropping a noose over my neck.

  “I was with him,” I blurt, “in his land. I swear it.”

  “Martin?” Glory echoes. “You were in . . . Martin’s land?”

  I nod frantically. “Where I left him. Alive. He’s fine. I didn’t kill anyone, least of all him!”

  “The green land with the river? Where it’s always twilight?”

  I keep nodding, even though she’s describing the Otherworld where the kingdom under the mountain is and Woolpit is still wary enough to think carefully on who and what the green children are.

  But I’ve been gone for almost a year, and a lot can change in all that time.

  Glory has been silently staring at nothing for several long moments, so I venture, “All is well now, right? Nothing’s happened to Martin. He’s where he belongs. So mayhap you could let me go? If I’ve been away so long, my ma and da must be frantic.”

  Glory grips harder. “Oh no. You’ll be telling them yourself. They’ll believe you.”

  “Tell them what?” I ask, but she’s dragging me up the hill and I’m reeling because nigh on a year and what if they think like Glory and they’re sure I’ve been somewhere bad? The Woolpit mas must have shaken this story hard, like a dog with a rabbit in its teeth. “Glory, please, there’s no time. I must find Senna. Green Agnes. The girl who lives here. I’m the one who’s in danger.”

  Glory is hammering a fist on the door. My ma swings it open, and behind her is my da repairing a kettle, and I’m crying because I’m really and truly home. I’m crying because rats and washing stands and walls made of children and Acatica, who I couldn’t save, even though standing next to her made me feel less alone and now that I’m back here there’s only Glory, who looks through me. I’m crying too hard to make words happen even though they’re bubbling over inside me.

  “Tell them!” Glory shakes my elbow hard enough that I collect myself because my ma is frowning in concern and my da has come up behind her, the kettle dangling from one meaty hand.

  “Weren’t you pulling down wood with Agnes?” my ma asks Glory. “Where is she? Is she all right? You didn’t leave her by herself, did you?”

  “Ma,” I squeak, and I move to throw my arms around her but Glory is holding me fast.

  My ma peers at me. “Walter, we know this girl. Who is she?”

  Who is she?

  I blink hard and manage, “I’m your daughter. Agnes.”

  “You know what?” My da frowns thoughtfully. “We did have a daughter named Agnes who was fair. Something happened to her, though.”

  “I was away,” I reply, just like Granny would, like you speak of someone who’s been taken by Those Good People. I say it so they’ll hear the story in it. “I came home as soon as I could, and I’m never going away again. Never.”

  My voice is firm, but Em is on her way right now to snatch me back. I wouldn’t be smelling glamour if she wasn’t. Only Senna might be able to help.

  “A better question is where is Martin?” Glory shakes me again and her eerie green eyes have a gleam to them that makes my blood run cold. “You will tell them and you will do it now.”

  “He’s not in Woolpit.” I say it fast and low, and the leaf-rot smell whispers up like dust. “He hasn’t been here since the harvest.”

  My da goes white. “But he’s playing with the other boys.”

  I shake my head. My throat is closed and I’m fighting tears.

  “I told you so!” Glory hisses. “He’s gone! He hasn’t been here in almost a year and you’re the ones who kept saying he was somewhere nearby.”

  The glamour smell comes on stronger and my ma falls to her knees. She’s making a sound, a long, high shriek that stutters in and out of hearing, like someone is pulling part of her out through her guts. Her hands clamp over her head as if she’s being beaten. My da kneels and silently puts his arms around her.

  “My baby!” Ma wails. “My little son. He’s dead. He must be dead.”

  Glory folds her arms and shakes her head like she’s disappointed. But I’m crying. Hard. Sobs from the deepest, most raw parts of me. I’m nobody’s baby now.

  Senna has seen to that.

  Only that’s not true. There’s Mother. My first ma who never left. I scrub tears out of my eyes and fling myself toward the byre. Many pigs are slaughtered in November because they’re costly to feed over winter, but my da has never so much as suggested it. The byre is empty, though. There are new tracks in the mud as if she’s walked past, but the straw is fresh and unslept in.

  Mother’s not here.

  My ma is still wailing, my da crouched beside her, holding her. They are weeping for Martin. This is Senna’s doing, too. It wasn’t enough for her to replace me. She made them think they still had a son named Martin, like the brother I lost.

  Glory said Senna lives here now. Calling herself Agnes. She must be nearby. The glamour smell is getting stronger by the moment and that means Em can’t be far away. Senna will know how I can stay free. She has to know.

  As I get near the house, Glory is turning from the door, prim and haughty. “I’ll be fetching my da. Now that there’s someone who can swear to what I’ve been saying all along.”

  There’s a surge of that leaf-rot smell, and my da flies past us, bounding across the yard and making a noise like a pup who’s just spotted his master.

  Martin is walking up the path, growing visible step on step, his hair uncovered, his green tunic spotless, for all the world looking exactly as he did when he peered up at me from the wolf pit all those months ago — a small green boy of eight summers or so, dressed in hunting clothes fine enough for a seat in Milord’s hall.

  He’s come. He’ll snatch me back. There’s nothing I can do. The ground will open beneath my feet and down I’ll go like one of the greedy or the vicious or the innocent in Granny’s stories.

  Martin flings his arms wide and rushes up the last of the hill. I squinch my eyes shut. Where I’m going is sure to hurt. There’s a whish of motion past me and — nothing.

  So I peek. Just a squint, and there’s Da holding Martin in the kind of tight embrace that would squeeze the life out of any mortal child. Martin’s eyes flick up and meet mine steady on, and I cannot breathe.

  He’s taunting me. I won’
t just be snatched. I’ll have to spend the next few instants — days — ages — wondering whether this is the moment it’ll happen.

  “My precious boy,” my da sobs, “is it really you? They told us you were gone. We thought the worst and here you are. Thank every saint there is.”

  “I’ve only just returned,” Martin says in Em’s voice, and I step back, for all the good it’ll do me.

  My ma hurries past me, shoving me out of the way. She’s a torrent of skirts and shrieking, and she throws her arms around them both and they are weeping as if they’ve never before known joy.

  “Returned?” Glory is hovering, anxious, wide-eyed. At least she’s not running for her da. I reach for her arm but she steps away from me. Just like before.

  “There was a cold room made of earth.” Martin’s voice is a tremble. “A man who said he was a king. He made me kneel on the hard floor and swore I would have nothing unless I did as he ordered. Agnes stood by as they all laughed at me. She left me to my fate and never looked back.”

  I start to bluster how Martin is lying, how I would never do such terrible things, but I stammer and choke because he’s not. The pieces all happened, but they did not follow one another that way. It’s true without being true. A story that’s not a story. Both and neither.

  “She’ll deny it.” There’s a cold smile behind his whimpery panic, his small hands gripping Da’s tunic and his head pressed fearfully into Da’s shoulder. The rotty smell is sharp and stinging. “That Agnes Walter will deny every word.”

  I keep telling myself it only seems, but there’s no seeming in my da’s dark glare trained on me like I’m in his arrowsight. No seeming in my ma’s narrowed red eyes and clenched fists.

  Da said Senna was pulling down wood. There are only a few places near Woolpit where that’s allowed, and by no means can I stay here. I turn on my heel and run hard.

  I’m screaming her name. Both names. Senna and Green Agnes. I don’t care who hears. Down the track, straight through the village. The Maypole is up, garlands everywhere, trestle tables standing ready for the feast soon to be laid upon them. Past the well, also hung with flowers. I’m halfway down the mill path and out of breath when Martin steps from behind a tree and into my way.

  “She can’t help you,” he says calmly. “Not where you’re going.”

  “Wait!” I stagger back. “Don’t snatch me.”

  Martin sighs, and in that moment he is all Em. There’s a wave of leaf-rot and the ground beneath me begins to glow green.

  They cannot be bought and they cannot be reasoned with, Granny would say, but sometimes — and only sometimes — they are too proud to believe that they can fall victim to the same sort of trickery they so deeply enjoy.

  “I can get her for you. The pig. The one who escaped.”

  He frowns. Peers at me. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not. I swear. Give me one day and I’ll bring her to the crossing place.”

  “I could just take you back right now,” Martin says, and the ground beneath my feet starts whispering like the walls, oh yes, give her to us. “You and the other one, too. I’d walk in the first row for sure with both of you accounted for.”

  “Not without the pig.” I grip my skirt to keep my hands still. “You still need her, don’t you? Someone sent a false pig to make a fool of you to amuse the court.”

  Martin hisses, all Em. “That Krrrrrrrshshshshshsh. Or the Crown Prince. If I ever find out who did it . . .”

  He doesn’t suspect me. He doesn’t want to believe a mortal thing could trick him. Em or Martin, he still wants things in a way that makes anyone vulnerable.

  “The pig is nearby,” I go on, and even though there’s no way I’d ever really turn Mother over, he must believe I would. “She’ll hide from you. You’ll never find her on your own. If you could, you’d have done it already. She’ll come to me. She knows me.”

  “Why would you do that? There’s nothing in it for you.”

  “I don’t want to be given to the walls,” I reply quietly, and my shudder is real. “That’s my condition. Snatch me back if you must, but let me serve like the others.”

  Martin smiles, but there’s a hard edge to it, one where something’s not quite right. “Very well. You have one day. By sundown tomorrow, both you and the pig will be at the crossing place.”

  I nod. I’m unsteady on my feet. He’s tricking me somehow, but at least I have a day to work out how to stop it. That’s more than enough time to find Senna. She made this bargain. There must be some way to unmake it.

  The lord of this place gave us leave to pull down firewood. Apparently we did not have permission before, and Da gave me an incredulous look when I told him surely the rule did not apply under the cover of night. His look faded to good humor, ha ha, Agnes, always with the delightful jest, and he was set to forbid my going out collecting until I told him Glory had invited me and I was only going to keep her company. Then all was fine. As long as I was with a friend and not burdening myself overmuch.

  I smuggle a piece of canvas out of the shed. I will tell him she gave me half of her takings.

  Ma and Da are too glamoured to notice that I’m keeping my distance from Glory. Hiding from her, truth be told. After the reeve took the mask off her, she hasn’t said a word about the boy-thing being gone. Not in public, anyway. But she’s made it her business to follow me everywhere, armed with a poorly sharpened meat knife to protect me from my vicious parents who surely mean me harm. When I found her standing guard outside the yard privy while I was making use of it, I sighed and asked, “Aren’t your da and our chieftain still trying to find my parents? In the green place? Beyond the big river?”

  Glory smiled. “I’m not sure Milord has ever looked.”

  It’s only a matter of time, then. Chores and errands may not save me.

  Today the greenwood is peaceful, busy with the sounds of others pulling down wood, and by the end of the day I can barely drag my haul. The windows of the house are glowing a comforting orange as I walk up the path at eventide. There’s no reason for Da to see how much wood I have before I can sneak it onto the pile, so I leave it behind the shed and head inside. There’s something delicious on the fire, and perhaps Ma can be persuaded to —

  The boy-thing smiles at me from the hearth bench where he is enthroned, Ma and Da kneeling at his elbows.

  No. He should not be here. I fulfilled every condition the king laid at my feet. I bought my freedom and I bought it dear.

  “Look who’s returned!” Ma hugs the boy-thing across the shoulders. “Our dear son. Your brother. Safe from his ordeal.”

  I force a smile. They should not remember him. He was all but gone from their minds, a distant shadow of a son they once had, one always somewhere else. Slowly I move toward the shelf at the back of the house where I put the iron needles for safekeeping.

  “You won’t find them,” the boy-thing says.

  “You cannot speak!”

  The boy-thing grins, all teeth. “Now I can.”

  Ma and Da have barely glanced at me, and I’ve been gone all day and I’m smudgy and there’s a cut on my cheek. No one is fluttering around me, tucking a bowl of supper into my hands and rushing me to the comfort of the fire. I think to rub the fairy cloth, but in the boy-thing’s presence it’d be a driplet in a downpour.

  “Besides, they’ll do you no good,” the boy-thing goes on. “There’s still a debt to be paid.”

  “Not from me,” I reply, but I have no liking for the look about him.

  “Blood must serve. Yours or hers.” He raises one taunting brow. “But I think both.”

  Ma and Da have not moved. It’s like they’re sleeping with their eyes open, frozen at the boy-thing’s elbows. I’m still in the doorway, gripping the frame. “You have someone to serve who shares my blood. Her life for mine. That was the bargain.”

  “That was the bargain,” the boy-thing replies, “until she broke it. Now there are no conditions. Now there i
s only blood that must serve. Yours and hers.”

  “She’s here,” I whisper, and when he smiles the smallest, slyest bit, I know it for true. The old Agnes somehow escaped the kingdom under the mountain, and she told someone where she’d been. That’s the only way the boy-thing would be able to speak, and the sole reason he’d feel bold enough to make a claim on me.

  Because he has one. Without the old Agnes serving in my place, I still owe a debt to these fairy wretches.

  The boy-thing bares his teeth at me, and the reek of glamour fills the room as Da blinks back to life. He rubs his eyes and scowls at me for the first time in . . . ever. “Where’ve you been?”

  Before I can reply, Ma sighs all in a gust. “Prancing in here after dark and expecting us to keep supper for you? You’re lucky we put a roof over your head at all. We get nothing for it, you know.”

  “Ma,” I whisper. “Da. Please.”

  “Seems to me you need a lesson in courtesy,” Da growls. “Since you think so little of this roof, you can sleep under someone else’s tonight.”

  The boy-thing leans his head against Da’s shoulder, and Da puts his arm around him, snug and tight. He has them both well and truly glamoured, and he undid in an instant what took three whole seasons to build. If he hasn’t snatched me back already, the boy-thing must be plotting something, and it must involve the old Agnes.

  “Go!” Da bellows, and I startle and blink away tears as I hurry away from the square of cheerful orange light. The dark shape of the pig byre hulks a stone’s throw from the house, and I stumble toward it. Mother hasn’t slept in it for months, not since the old Agnes left. At the very least the straw will be warm and dry.

  Besides, the old Agnes has clearly been here already. She’s seen the boy-thing. She’s seen what’s become of Ma and Da. If she’s going to get anywhere near this house again, she’ll head to the one place she’s likely to see her pet. She’ll come to find Mother, and I’ll be waiting.

  Woolpit is preparing for the Maying. Boys and girls wrap thick garlands of flowers over doorways and along fences, men pile wood for a massive bonfire, and mas with steamy red faces stand over pots and kettles. Every cheerful smile hurts afresh. It’s the Maying already, and it feels like only yesterday we were all sweating in the wheat field.