Cloud and Ashes: Three Winter's Tales (45 page)

"Thou gi'ed me for thy telling."

Soulstruck, he remembered all: the white road and the dazzle of his deaths; the black earth of her coat, her queynt, his grave.

"Thy will's thine own in me,” she said. “To give or take it at thy will; and mine to keep.” She took his face between her hands, annealing him: his sharded soul uncrazed. She sained him, named him Sun in Ashes; slipped the mantle of his stripling body, mud and fire, from his soul. “Now thou can lay me down and love me. An thou will.” He willed it; and she kissed his mouth.

Too bright for leaping. Yet he jumped, his white head flaring in the risen sun. And there, and there he hung, still dazzling. A-dance on light.

"A death?” said my lady. “One? What game in that, amid so many?"

As she turned the soulstones mocked and glinted in her hair. The hall had vanished. She was nowhere, everywhere: the dark Whin stood upon, the air, the strand, the fury of the sea. She was the reef, the wrack, the harpagon; the dark of moon, her tides; an iron crow struck deep within the rock, the rock itself, imprisoning a crowd of stars. The woundless element, its flaw. And in the coil and midnight of her presence raged a storm, a stinging hail of souls. Dashed ice and driven sleet: but knowing. Sheltering her face, Whin saw the witch uprising in the whirlwind like a spindle to the wheel of night, like a wick of shadow and a whorl of flame. Stark white: a stance of lightning. In the cup of her white hand, the witch outheld a little heap of silvery darkness, hail and sand.

"Choose then. Which?"

No voice. My lady's air was talons at her throat, it clawed her blood and breath. But: “This.” Whin made a whiteness, a whorl of cloud round a grain of sand. “Of many, one."

The girl with the red hair woke in Ashes on a cold bright morning, nowhere that she knew. She lay a moment gazing at a dazzle-edged door; until the clink of braided runes recalled her. She was Ashes and alone; and in the witch's narrow bed. Shivering, she sat and pulled the frowsty covers round her shoulders. Cold not with fear nor exaltation, but a still content. A centering. She had known the impery of stars; would know the sword's dominion and the heart's: but this bare solitude ensouled her, selving.

Cold and bare. She rose and looked about her, padding here and there in her worsted stockings, moving in a cloud of breath. All hers alone: a house. Two rooms, but and ben; a loft by a twisted stair. Adazzle. Dim. The tumbled bed, a cannikin beneath for use. A stripped loom by a shuttered window. A besom leaning by the wall. The clothes that had been stitched for Annot's wedding, scattered on the floor. She gathered them, rejoicing, bundled them away.

Now for morning. She undid the three-light window by the loom. It looked out on a garth and orchard, leafless now, but in limned in winter-silvery light. Where she had sat and listened to a tale of witches: inward out. Light pooled within her hold and patched it, rippling on the walls. And by that light, above the panelled bed, a timeworn carving showed: the winged face of a woman with a pair of shears, but what she sheared was gone. There were ash pegs driven in the crucks, worn smooth; and cross and cross between them still a tale of yarn: nine turns of nine. In her trance of understanding she could read:
sleep safely here, dream well. Wake new.
They sained her; they were left for her: she let them be.

But how high the sun was. It was very late: near noon, she thought. By now, she was fiercely hungry; chattering with cold.
Then do,
she told herself.
Thou goslin. What, eat light? Not stark thyself with cold, at least. Now shift.
She went to make the fire up.

There was a drawing in charred timber on the hearthstone: a few swift strokes, a smudging thumb. The Hare. Alive. Ashes studied it: the glint of quartz the gazing of its wary eye, the swell of stone its flank. The stars in their just places. Ah, he knew his sky—what other roof had he?—and drew it well. As on that stone that lay now in the grass without: its perfect daub of Witches washed away, their tale remembered. As he'd heard it—
O thou mouldwarp
—from another Ashes, at her weaving. On this very loom.
Tellt me stars.
She'd read him inward out. His truth lay not in what he told her, but his tales.

And the Hare?

Atween thy legs. Thou fond.

I've seen it rise.

And I,
he'd said, but silently. He'd known her vanished stars; had let her know he'd known: a sort of peace. A pang. For she would ask him for a tale of Jin's. Could never now.
I would he were away,
she'd thought: and he was gone. Off with the greyclad guiser, like as not: fierce company, but one who had the art and wit to keep him from the vengeful pack; if not at ease, alive.
He's for Brock's bag, caught kicking.

They'd left tokens though. His garland hanging by a nail from the chimney-breast. On the hearth, a kit full of water and a threadbare cloth; on the sill of the fire-window, a bowl of milk, a napkin full of oatcake and salt butter, and a withered apple, sound and sweet. Nothing in the chimney cupboard, but another carving on the door: an owl.

It would all taste of Ashes.

Could she wash herself? She thought what Barbary would say.
Coat's what thou is. Same as earth is earth.
They'd not leave water and a towel, if not. She hung the Ashes coat beside the ash pegs, with respect. Attire for her calling: not for workadays.

Then she set to work and scrubbed herself by the fire—cold water and no soap—until the towel was black, and her hands and feet were streaked with fainter grey on mottled red and blue. What her face was like she dared not think. No comb.

Then she ate, and felt revived.

Just now she cared nothing for the pother and the choke of ashes, their ill tang in her mouth; the frazzling of her hair; the bite and bruise of fangy metal that she'd slept on, printed in her cheek and scalp; nor yet the curiously fishy bedding. One of Barbary's needle songs was running through her head:
” ... thou's a fool without and I's a maid within."

Taking up the broom, she swept away a confusion of muddy footprints, trampled, overtrampled, to the sill and out the door; and stood admiring her cold clean view.

But not for long: she stood a-shiver in her shirtsleeves now. Rebarring the door, she took the fine furred jacket up, to put it on. All that needlework in vain. She hesitated; shrugged. It could scarce be grimier. But it was strangely heavy, as she now remembered it had been. Pinching, she felt the pebbling in it: well-stitched so not to shift and chink. With the sharp little knife from the Ashes gear, she stood by the unglazed window to unpick the seams. And there was gold in the jacket, like an old tale, sliding out and chiming on her hand: five coins of gold, struck with the Unleaving Ship. She'd no idea what they were worth: a horse? a house? a loaf of bread?
A life,
she thought, for a dazzled blink, envisioning herself, her books; and then, remembering her trade:
A death to tell? But whose?
Cold awe and curiosity.

Bewildered, deeper in, her fingers met a hard-soft packet, and another, nearly slender as the coins. Her breath stopped. Most carefully she drew them out; she broke the seal of one, unwrapped stiff paper and fine lambswool from her lens. And then the other: hinder and skyward. Within the sheet was writing, in a hand she knew:

Thou needst must travel Light; so I may send thee only (dear as Eyes) what thou

wouldst have. Take of my regard so much as may not burden thee.

The men that bear thee to thy Ship are trew Friends of thy life and Honour.

Go with a fair Wind. Hallows ever on thy Soule.

Think not on my Frailty; but remember mee thy Fellowe clerk.

Bartolemy Grevil

Puzzlement and fierce possesion.

O my glass.

Thy ship?

But this is for Margaret, elsewhere. I should give it her.

And round again:
my glass
. But not her cards, her book. Why not? Were they still secret, slid behind the wainscot? Seized by Madam and her witches? Found and burnt as so much trash? Not forfeit, as her glass would be if Ashes kept it back.

Why gold though? And what ship? Oh!
And there she stood, agape.
Oh, I see.
The bandoggs in the wood were Grevil's men. They'd meant to spirit her away. And in her new rough guise, she nearly stamped. Was she a child that they'd not told her? Did they think she'd blab? But her old and wary self thought, but
how
could they have told her? Madam and her crows had kept so fierce a watch on her that none could speak; though Barbary had stitched and hinted.
Feign; or they will bind thee.
And,
Thy word is, By th'moon.
Barbary would have lit her candle, whispering counsel, at the stones. There would have been an uproar round another Ashes, and a swift encircling of Grevil's men, with swords. A fine plot, but for chance.

No chance: not in Cloud. The latewitch and the guiser saw to that. Alas for Grevil's stratagem. They two had made cat's cradles of his tangled web: a pinch, a pluck, and all was overturned. Spell and counterspell. How much of all that long strange roaring night had been their work? The crossroads in the dark? The whelming tide of girls? Her stubborn candle-wick? Oh yes and yes. The tower and the keys. The bed.

Would no one let her be? She was forever someone else's means: was this one's dish and that one's candlestick, a sheath for that other one's knife. His copyist,
his
hobbyhorse, her sealed commodity, his toy, her empty glass: the engine of their stratagems, device of their desires. A nought to multiply themselves. A hole to fill. Fear and fury mingled with a pang of envy and of loss: for that other self who was Margaret, having taken ship for Lune. She stood unhindered at the bows, with the wind behind her, and the stars about her, wheeling round her mast of tree. Away.

And then she laughed: for all this country dance had given her no sideslip, but her will. That other girl would find a new captivity in Lune: a prison with a vault of stars. Still tethered, though she slipped away. In heart she would have journeyed with her. But in soul now she was Ashes, colder: who could scatter things of childhood to the wind. Unleaving she would journey farthest.

I would have gone,
she thought.
But I have work to do.

And looking at the black hare on the hearth, she felt a prickling down her spine.
That card was burnt. That's two.

As custom was, Barbary brought up an ashing-caudle to congratulate the new-made Ashes’ dame.

Master Grevil had ridden out to speak with his conspirators, now thwarted of their charge. To Tiphan of the Nine; to little Etterby the woodwo; Calder that was Slae. A cold returning they would have of it by sea, and all to do again.

But here was work enough within. She tapped at the bower-door where lay the matrons and their maids; was bidden in.

"Ashes is waked."

"And Annot sleeps.” The younger Selby took a cup. “This looks not like a nuptial."

Mistress Graves in her nightcap, dizzy with scandal, drank. “
Grief in the kitchen, mirth in the hall,
they say. Or is it t'other way round? Here's all topsy-turvy."

"How does Madam Covener?” said Barbary, up-nodding at the stairs.

"Splenetic,” said the Selby.

"I say, let them rage,” said Mistress Graves. “Unwedded Ashes.” Leaning eagerly. “Didst thou see her will?"

"Named Ashes,” said the Selby. “Yet her coat lay not on Annot's bed.” She set the cup down. “Thou mad'st her, my girl. Where lay the coat?"

"On Nine Law,” said Barbary, “whence she came.” She went up to Madam's room.

She'd heard the cry at midnight, coming back: a great despairing shriek. A silence. Aye, she'd lief as not go in. As soon go harrying in Morag's nest of crows.
Best see what they's about,
she thought, and did not knock.

"Ashes is waked. Rejoice yer."

Green as any glass, her face, sea-green as celadon. Flawless in its fury. Bloody hands, though, as if she'd been riving. When she spoke, her voice was mad in measure, like a player queen's.

"See what thou hast done."

"Madam?"

"Thou hast broke my great vessel and the cordial spilt."

"'Tis pity, Madam. Yer mun start again."

A long silence. Then: “So I must,” said Madam. “At her kindling.” She took the proffered cup and drank. “To Ashes’ waking."

"To her wake,” said Barbary. She saw the change in Madam's face, could not unriddle it. Exultant dread?
Here's all her stratagems in shards, and—'Tis like she's brock a looking-glass and saved her face.
“'Tis a shame about t'wedding, Madam."

"I am told that Master Corbet did himself repudiate her. Wert thou not of that distempered rabble?"

"Nay, but wi’ a graver sort o gossips, matrons and spinsters, at her making."

"A sort of smutched aprons. These country Joans did ill-befit her station. I myself will name her at her kindling, take her coat and crown. Unmake her."

"By yer leave, Madam, ‘tis their ladyships, yon sisters, that unmake and make. We nobbut stand gossips in their room."

Contempt and wonderment. “Thou withered impudence. Thou virgin."

"Aye,” said Barbary. “Yer crows'd not have me so. I's dry.” She gathered up her tray. “I'd lay this Ashes’ will's for quiet. Given as she come frae Babylon a maid."

"Her vixen's not been hunted. When it's up, ‘twill start."

The servant bobbed.
There's witchery to come, I misdoubt. Still can spin, can Madam Attercap. And bite.
“There's delicates will spoil if they's not etten. I's send our lasses up wi’ fleshmeat, cakes and wine.” At the door she turned. “And linen. Those hands'll want binding."

A soft knock at Ashes’ door: “My lady?” Putting letter, lenses, gold and all in her pocket, she opened on a patched man: almost a boy, she thought at first. All dusky, with his moledark hair. But then with Ashes’ eyes she saw how his lightsome body had been knotted with long work. Still boyish in the turn and carriage of his head, his smile; but hunched of shoulder, weather-worn. Untimely wizened. He doffed and made a leg to her, with hand on heart. “Hallows on yer house.” Then he offered what he held: a holly bob. “Beg yer leave, but my dame thowt I s'd first foot yer, being sooty-pated and all.
Black's luck,
they say.” And in his other hand he showed a hunch of barley bread, a farthing, and a pinch of salt in paper. “Inasmuch as I can. Siller's hard come by."