Cloud and Ashes: Three Winter's Tales (54 page)

He rose and went on.

Coming down by Askrigg, bleak and early, Kit—of late, a fiddler with the journeymen, no more—saw a skirmish by the bridge. A young boy set upon by boys and fleeing, pelted with a hail of stones and ice. He skidded on the scree and was down among them, flailing.

"Hey!” In a stride, Kit had two brats by the jackets. Three scattered. “Mob crows. Five on one."

Wick as an eel, one spat and twisted free and ran. From the bridge, he called, “Players! Set dogs on yer."

"Tell our dad!” snuffled the other, writhing under Kit's arm.

Kit said, “Is yon thy brother?” Silence. “Off wi’ thee."

He turned back to the stranger boy, crouched warily, shielding his face. Snow ghosted him. For a eyeblink, Kit saw Whin at the sea's edge.
Thou ask at my son.
He sleeved his eyes. Not her son, of course. Long years too young. But like Whin, black as thorn. Another scatterling, a starveling brat. As common as brambles here in Cloud. Ice in his dusky hair, and a trickle of blood. New bruises on old. Rags. Running from his master, thought Kit. Happen from a bad place to a worse.

"Where art thou bound, lad?"

"Away.” A norland accent, back of beyond. Eyes blue as mussel shells. A fisher boy.

"Hast bread?"

"I can get it."

"As well now as later.” Kit undid his budget.

"I's not begging,” said the lad, and stood. “I can work."

Green as April. Kit looked about the bare fells. “Scant fishing here."

"I can run. And carry. Scrape trenchers.” He looked away east. “Is there work?"

Whoring. Thieving.
“For crows. There's lambs dead yonder. And witches hanged."

"Oh."

West, then, or south. Kit thought of travellers who might want a boy. Nick Stiddy's lad was blinded, falling in his forge—or was pushed. A sullen and a smouldering drunk, old Stiddy. Not with him. Cull Marrybone's last moll was bearding, he'd be after a downy. No. And little Tom Stormcock was hanged for a lamb. As good drown.

"Canst thou do aught else? Weave? Thack?"

"I can play yon dub and whittle,” he said, pointing at Kit's pack. Pipe and tabor.

"Canst thou?” Kit beckoned him under the lee of the bridge. “Play's a tune, then."

Blue hands. He breathed on them. Then flat and fingers, he thrubbed a beat, three and two; then played
Cats Kindling,
twice through, at a whisper. Not perfectly in voice: a thready sound, shrill and plaintive, like a marshbird. Sandpiping. But with changes. And in time. He looked at Kit.

Who looked at Thea, like the afterimage of a flame.
Do you steal children?
she'd asked. And long ago he'd answered,
Some run away with me.
None since.

"But this day's bread, I've nought to give thee. No roof."

At best. Scant work behind him, with his melancholy like a black dog at his heels. Small work ahead. The journeymen's master had packed him off penniless. No company would take him now: they'd banned him with old Tabor for a lurching turncoat and a malapert. So that was it. A hireling at wakes, if that. A sturdy vagabond, for all his bad shoulder. Gallowsmeat. And anywhere he'd ask for daytell work, they'd know him for the players’ fiddler, and a killsun gallantry. They'd broken the guising, and a bairn was dead. He'd best move on.

"Flayed ‘em off.” The boy looked where the gang had fled.

"Boys. Were they men, they'd've drubbed us both.” Or worse. He'd been whipped at the cart's tail, from dalesend to dyke.

No hope then,
said the boy's face.

Kit shrugged. “Come up. I know a shieling.” He held out a moon's penny. “Here's for thine earnest. Clap hands.” And so done.

"Hall'ee, Master."

"Kit Crowd. Hast thou a name?"

No answer.

"Come up, then, Master Drum."

At the crossroads, Grevil swore. Coming from the Hawtreys in a sleeting rain, he'd fallen. Frost-nailed though she was, Rianty'd stumbled; though he'd righted her, she'd had him off. And was away, affrighted in her kittle wits. At nought. Some marish phantasy, some hobbyhorse. As if a ghostly sort of guisering had met her in the lane and mopped at her. Shook ribbons of the snow. As if the way from Imber were the Road.

He fished his hat up from the ditch and looked about. Near dark. The sleet was fulling out to snow. Nought broken, but he'd had a flailing in his fall. Had landed on some fickle ice that broke. His clothes were half soaked through; his hat was quenched. That was bad. A long walk home, round Nine Law. Gainest over it, but like to come to grief: stray, starve, or tumble down. Back to Imber, he thought. Tom Shanklin's wife kept Lightfast well, and brewed good wakesun ale. He could dry himself by their fire. Send Tom for the grey.

Not Hawtrey, who was dazed with grief. A good man. Weeping for his pretty goslin, up and down, and fretting for the Sun. For who'd bring it? For there came a man to rake the ashes and the year would die. And who'd wake it? Though his fellows—Mag Rendal the farrier and little Arkady—assured him, over and again, that they would dance. Still ashes in their hair, as if in mourning. Solemn now. But still he fretted, crying out, his son, the Sun. Alas, poor pretty child, poor rushlight: he was drowned. That fickle ice. And all about the bier was greenery and candles of sheer wax. The scent of death was honeyed fire. Small comfort in their master's calling, Grevil thought. He'd done his best: brought spice and candles for the arval, ashing silver for the tale. Left Barbary to wake with them.

As he turned back toward the little hamlet, afoot, he heard a jangle, as of harness. Not his mare: this came from yonderly, up Nine Law. A horseman? If it were, his horse was air. For he heard no clattering of hooves. And who would ride that hill of glass sheer downward? Grevil turned and squinted through the dazzling gloom.

A shadow in the snow. A stone? This side of Imber? Were they walking from the hill? And even in his shuddering, he faintly smiled. His nurse had said the Ninestones danced at Lightfast, when they heard the fiddler.

Will I see them dance?

Aye, and a hare will carry thee, there and back, and thy spurs of silver and its bridle all of gold. When stones hear crowd.

He called, “Who's there?"

His question always: but the voice was not the antiquary's, curious, amused. It shook.

"Who's there?"

A fire in the sleet bloomed suddenly. No sound of striking flint. A lantern. By its sway and shivering of light he saw a breeched and booted figure striding lightly from the hill. It jangled as it came. A rough coat like a shepherd's, and a lapwise cap. Not one of his own men. Not of man?

A silver light about its head, a hag.

There was Imberbeck between them. Running water. But even as he clung to nursery tales, as to old Tibby's apron strings, he heard the silence of the river. Stayed with ice.

Lightly still, the waft leapt over it. She bid him in a rough small voice.

"I knaws thee, Noll Grevil. Thou's been Ashes."

Dusk. Ashes made haste to the trey stone. At her elbow, gabbling at her silence—there were some took mute for mad—the second ranting lad led on. Kin Kempery with his lath and tatters. “Guising's to gang on. Y'll see. ‘Tis all new-vamped.” No answer and no pause, as if he jumbled both their parts. “Moon's to play t'Fool, yer see. For Hob's sake. We's been ‘hearsing it up Fiddler's house—nay, not Owlriggs, it were changed. I's take yer there. Not far.” The way from Ask to Owlerdale.

She hurried after.

Through the daggling of sleet, she saw the torches now, the knot of men. She saw the blot of ivy on their pole, a glimmering of whited hair, outwhited by the snow. The Fiddler. She was in among them when he turned to her, all silent in his mask of bone.

Behind her, all around, she heard a stirring and the clink of metal.

He raised his vizard on a mocking face. Old Corbet, smiling like a rennie fox.

"Mistress Ashes."

Under the lintel of the low door, boardless to the wind and snow, was fire. Mainly smoke, but Grevil, nearly starved with cold, cared not for that. Nor vermin. Crouched over its faint glower, jealously, like dragons with a hoard, were two dark bodies: beggars sheltering from the storm.

"Halse ye,” said his new companion, stamping at the threshold. “Here's a drowned man and a ferrier would borrow fire.” The beggars shrugged them in. She set the lantern down.

Grevil saw a man about his own age, neither fair nor brown, in middling clothes—no tawdry, but the offcasts of an artisan—who might be light and quick but for a stiffness in his shoulder. At his side, a sloedark ragged lad. Chance met, by need of fire? His boy? The man rose not to Grevil's entering, but stared in horror at the goatshod ferrier, as if he'd seen his walking death. His eyes were drowned in dark.

Grevil knew that face. To swage the awkwardness, he said, “Wert thou not that fiddler but a night ago? That stood champion for the sun?"

Astounded. Not a word.

"And got no penny by it, by this lodging. ‘Twas honorably upheld. I looked for thee, to recompense, but thou hadst gone.” And Grevil fumbled for his purse.

But the boatman said, “'Twere fairest if thou paid in kind."

"Please you?"

"I has work for yer. A guising.” She was busied making up the fire to blaze, and setting on a can of ale. She tossed a budget to the lad. Bread and cheese. He fell on it. “We's drink to Leapfire, and I's set yer on."

Still the fiddler was stone; but Grevil said, “My thanks for your offer"—somehow he could not
thou
her—"but I take no hireling's wages. I am master in this hall—"

"And where's this hall?” said Brock. The shadows wavered on the walls. “Thou's master o nowt. A nutshell. If a worm can lord it where he gnaws. And thy lands are t'length o thee, thy grave."

Grevil said, “I know as you have told me. A soul goes only in a borrowed coat: we are landless all, but only Tom: his coat is Cloud."

"Thou's studied, Noll.” An approbation in her eyebrow. “But then thou's been my journeyman, and sworn."

"I made no vow,” said Grevil, but uncertainly.

"Nay, thou sealed wi’ me lang since. When thou were Ashes. Since then thou's lated all thy life for her, and for a player's coat o Cloud. Now they—” She shrugged at the other two. “They's runned frae't. And three makes up my tale o men. Kit Crowd, Noll Nuttycrack, and Imbry Ask.” She nodded at the three in turn. “Thou's lain wi’ me, thou's slain for me, and thou I brought to shore."

Grevil said, “Slain? I've harmed none that I know."

"Thou's hanged a lad but two months since. For nowt. His yellow hair."

"Did he not flee?” said wretched Grevil. “I pray he was not ta'en."

But she turned his own words back at him, his sentencing: “
If I wrong thee, I will take thy road."

"'Tis a form of words. A ritual. For some.” He raised his face. “But I spoke it not in play."

"So thou's to play it out."

At last the fiddler spoke. There was a quaver in his voice: but as a blade still quivers in its mark. Whether grief, hate, fury, horror, Grevil could not tell: a white intensity.

"I'll not be a knife in your hand,” he said. “My lass is dead. Our child is forfeit. And I am slain each moment since."

Brock tasted of her brew. “There's men wi’ knives that go about to slay t'Sun: and so he rises. And would not if they did not."

He acknowledged. “It is so. But she is dead."

"And Ashes,” said the traveller. “So of her ashes will an Ashes rise."

Riddles?
Grevil thought.

"'Tis a play,” the fiddler said. “A cheat. A jugglery of knaves. I've crowded for them."

Diffidently, Grevil said, “I've seen it true. I was Ashes."

And the fiddler bowed his head and laughed: not shrewdly but amazed. “What, you? Were you a player then? Did they run off with you?"

"A boy,” said Grevil. “And mine aunt did make an interlude, to please the company. I sang.” He looked a long way off, remembering. “But in our hall there was a masque of players. And truly they did wake the sun and moon."

"Ah, but there are none such now,” the fiddler said. “All bravery."

Brock said, “All but my journeymen.” She ladled out the ale; she held her cup to him. “Would thou raise thy green girl's daughter out o Law?"

"With all my soul.” Which lighted all his face—how young he was—and clouded then. “Is't possible?"

"No journey but to travel."

"Then am I your knife."

"It's a fiddler that's wanting. But t'dance is hers."

They drank all round, and swore it by the Road.

"But we've no Ashes,” Grevil said. “I am disbarred."

"Ask t'lass,” said the traveller, pointing with her chin.

"Not,” said the boy, and scowled at them. The men gaped foolishly.

"Thou is and all,” said Brock. “A wave child. Cast up on Selbrow in a storm."

Grudgingly, the child admitted, “Aye, Marrit found me. Ca'd me Kist."

"And then—?"

"She sellt me to Slawk Betty, and she bound me til an Ashesfast. Blind, so I led her."

"Begged?” said Grevil.

She looked scorn at him. “Tellt men's fortunes wi’ her plash. Wives, when they willed to breed. Wenches, when they'd not, to rid ‘em. Boys for practice. Had a mind to whore me, so I run away."

Grevil, horrified and curious, was noting this. An
Ashesfast.
So she that erstwhile had her will of all must give her will to anyone. Selbrow, did she say? A bad old custom.

"So thou's not been Ashes?"

"I's not bled.” She braved it for a glance, all honesty; but at a gaze, her courage sank. Her brown cheek paled and burned.

Brock took her by the chin and held her gaze. “Thou was to ha’ been Ashes, and there's souls in Law for thee, untold. Black shame on thee."

"There's always Ashes,” said the sullen girl.

"Or else there's never spring. A cold year i’ Selbrow it's to be."

"Then Ash me."

"At Lightfast? Nay, that's done and done,” said Brock, and smiled her little knife-flick of a smile. She turned the girl about as if she were a pot to mend; she rang her metal. “But I'll prentice thee, young Imbry Ask. I's make thy gown o green."