Grayling's Song (17 page)

Her eyes burned. How could she leave him behind? They had been through so much, and she loved him. A mouse, and she loved him. She swallowed hard and said, “Then farewell, Pook. You are a prince of a mouse, a wonder of a mouse, an entirely splendid mouse, and I shall miss you.”
Terribly,
she thought with a snuffle.

Pook had turned aside for a fit of cleaning and paid no attention to her, continuing to groom his paws. He looked different . . . quite mouselike. Grayling bit her lip and looked away. This mouse was a mouse now and Pook no longer.

She wrapped her cloak about her, took her bundle, and set off alone into the morning mist.

he road ran ever on,
through hills and fields, meadows and valleys, past towns and villages. After two weary days and frosty nights, Grayling woke with empty belly but full heart. Today she would be home.

The sun was rising as she climbed up the hill she had once walked down. Here and there she could hear the jabbering song of a starling, although bare-branched oaks, alders, and maples warned, “Autumn is waning. Make ready for winter.” She made a song to sing along:

Seasons change, winter's nigh.

Leaves change color, fall, and die.

Seasons change, wet and dry.

Even wise folk wonder why

Everything changes by and by.

Humming, she reached the rise where she had slept that first night and thought once more of Pook, safe and warm and well fed with Auld Nancy. Grayling patted the pocket where she had carried him to the sea and back. “Never,” she whispered, as though he could hear her, “never did I think I would miss having a mouse in my pocket. Or a goat by my side. But I do.”

Still, down from this hill was her mother—her mother whole and out of danger, she hoped, or her mother growing into the ground, or her mother a tree now, but still her mother. Grayling's heart thumped in anticipation as she headed into the valley.

She peered through the trees, trying to catch sight of the cottage or at least what part of it survived the fire. Faint remains of the smoke scented the air, and Grayling imagined the ruins would be like broken teeth upon the ground. But as she grew nigh, she felt dizzy with joy and relief. There was the cottage, much as it had been—small, to be sure, but solid and sturdy, roofed with freshly laid thatch. The walls were repaired with oak timbers and patched with woven-stick wattle under daub of mud, dung, and straw.

And there was her mother
—
no roots, no branches, no leaves
—
her mother, Hannah Strong! Grayling smiled so wide it hurt her face, and she half stumbled, half danced down the path, her hair flying and her cheeks burning. “Hannah Strong!” she shouted. “Mother, I am home!”

The woman turned. Her daub-spattered kirtle hung loosely, and the hair peeping out from beneath her kerchief was gray. Had her mother changed so much in this past fortnight, or had Grayling not noticed her aging? But grizzled or not, the woman was not a tree, and her legs ended not in roots but in wide, strong feet.

“Well met, daughter,” said Hannah Strong, thrusting a handful of sticky daub at Grayling. “Take some of this and help me. I wish to have solid walls before the snows come.”

Grayling put her hands out without thinking and accepted the heavy, soggy heap.

“Where is the grimoire?” asked Hannah Strong.

“'Tis part of my story. Shall I tell it? Do you wish to know what I found and what I did and how it is you are no longer rooted to the ground?”

Hannah Strong waved her muddy hand. “Pish. There are mysteries aplenty in this world, and I have not the time to question them all.”

“But it was my doing, and—”

Hannah Strong pushed Grayling toward the cottage wall. “Tell me when daylight has faded. Go and be useful.”

Now she was home and faced with Hannah Strong, Grayling felt childish and insignificant again, as if the past weeks had not happened at all. But they had, and she had much to tell. “I expect my story can keep,” she said as she spread the daub upon the wall, “but do say how the cottage has been made whole again. It can be only a short time since the spell was broken and you were freed.”

“The Tailor twins wanted my remedy for wind in the bowels, and the price was repair to the cottage frame. Goodwife Stock needed a love potion, so she helped me weave the wattle. And you can see what Thomas Thatcher paid for relief for his griping gut,” said Hannah Strong, gesturing toward the roof. She slapped another handful of daub on the side of the cottage and spread it thickly. “We must finish the plastering soon, for there are salves and potions to be mixed, brewed, and bottled.”

Grayling stopped, daub dripping from her hands down her skirt. “Indeed. Your salves and potions were lost or gone with me. What, then, did you give to Goodwife Stock and the others?”

“I made do,” said Hannah Strong. “I had herbs and spells and fresh water, ashes and berries and songs. And I am quite adept at persuasion.”

Grayling smiled. Her mother's magic was indeed like a sausage.

Day darkened to chilly evening as they daubed the cottage walls.

Finally they cleaned their hands and took shelter in the unfinished cottage. The room was smaller than Grayling remembered, empty and cold and lacking the chairs and tables and shelves of supplies that had made it home.

She built a small fire with bits of charred wood and tinder and warmed her backside. Hannah Strong unwrapped a parcel of cheese and brown bread and a jug of sour ale. Grayling raised an eyebrow in query. “Simon Strand the innkeeper,” said Hannah Strong, “wished a tonic to sweeten his mother-in-law's disposition.”

Grayling sat and nestled close to the hearth.

“Tell me now,” Hannah Strong said as they ate.

So Grayling began with the mouse who ate the potions and singing in the towns and the woman with the wart. “And can you guess,” she asked, “who heard me singing and came to me?”

But her mother was asleep.

It rained that night, but the roof was tight and the walls nearly so, so Grayling was dry and almost warm. She thought of Auld Nancy, who could stop this rain—if she wished, if she was rested and her belly was full. Grayling was struck with a sudden yearning to see her, which she held close until she, too, slept.

She dreamed of hissing serpents and woke with a start, but the sound proved only the hissing of the damp wood in the fire. She was home. She turned with a huff and slept again, dreamless.

In the morning, as they finished the remains of the cheese, Hannah Strong said, “The brown clay pot there is some cracked from the heat of the fire but likely will serve. Go and gather bilberries and thistle, bayberry bark and the roots of what yellow dock is still in the garden, and we will brew healing tonics. Certes there will soon be problems that cannot be eased with chanting, mint, and persuasion.” She added more wood to the fire and blew it into greater flame.

Grayling wrapped her cloak around her, took the brown clay pot, and went outside. The rain had stopped. She searched through the shriveled herbs outside for what was yet alive and useful. Then she sat, resting her weary body and her blistered feet, and fell asleep there in the garden. That day and the next passed, filled with some labor, a bit of food, and welcome sleep.

Grayling felt strangely restless and dissatisfied. Something was missing, something Grayling needed to feel safe and content as she used to. The valley she had longed for seemed somehow empty and forlorn. What was happening in the world outside? Was the metal-nosed warlord still brewing disorder? Was Pansy trying out more selfish magic?

The third morning, she woke early and left the cottage, weary of the smell of charred wood and fresh daub. It was too cold for bird song, but she heard water gurgling through the small round rocks in the pond, and she began humming along.

For a moment she imagined she heard the grimoire singing, and she stopped cold. For many days, she had sung to it and heard it sing back, but lately she and the grimoire had been silent. She missed the song, the tug and the promise, the satisfaction of having something important to do. And others to do it with.

Taking a deep breath and hoping, Grayling began to sing. And as faint as the whoosh of a butterfly's wings, she heard the grimoire's song. Wherever Phinaeus Moon and the book were, no water lay between them and Grayling. She sang again for the pleasure of hearing the grimoire, sea-soaked and far away, sing back.

While Hannah Strong smoothed another coat of daub on the cottage walls, Grayling searched for what was available and edible. She gathered rosehips and ripe plums and dug for wild garlic. There were withered pears on a tree and shriveled blackberries. Once inside, Hannah Strong brought out the heel of bread. Such a supper reminded Grayling of meals on the road, and she remembered the lovely Desdemona Cork with the sun and moon inked on her face. What did she do now? And Auld Nancy, Sylvanus, and Phinaeus Moon? Did they think of her and sigh, as she did?

The music of raindrops on the cottage roof moved Grayling to make a song, but instead she fell into a tired sleep. That night she dreamed of flying goats and singing cheese and men with horses' feet.

Next morning Grayling sought her mother, who was out gathering sticks and twigs for the fire. “Sit, Mother,” Grayling said, and her voice trembled. “You must listen. I have things to say, and it is time to say them.” She cleared her throat and began again. “Stop working, sit, and listen. I have seen much and lived much since I left you, and I was changed by my adventures.” She smiled with the remembering. “My story has a serpent, magicians, and soothsaying cheeses. I was brave at times, and I discovered many things I can do and know.”

Without protest, Hannah Strong wiped her hands clean on her kirtle and sat down on the firewood stack to listen. As Grayling told her story, she wondered again that she had had the courage to leave her home and face such dangers.

Hannah Strong nodded her head while Grayling spoke. “Aye,” she said when Grayling finished. “I have heard whispers and rumors that other cunning folk were rooted as I was and now have been freed, grimoires taken and now returned. And that was your doing?”

“I considered what I must do to free you, and I did it. I expect you are surprised to hear that.”

“Not a bit,” said Hannah Strong. “I never would have sent you if I had not known you could do it.”

“Truly?” Grayling felt her cheeks grow warm with pleasure and surprise. “You never told me that.”

“I did not think it needed telling. You did what must be done.”

“I did! I did!” But even as she said it, Grayling realized it was not true.
They
had done it, all of them together.

She pulled at a loose thread on her tattered skirt. Just as one thread is not as strong as woven cloth, she thought, a person striving with others can be stronger than she would be alone. She had never thought of that before. She was swept with longing for the others.

Hannah Strong slapped her knee and rose. “Enough. It was a good journey and a good story, and now we must hurry and make ready for winter. When rain and snow fall, I would have us be safe and content within.” She studied Grayling and said, “Wise women learn when they are ready, and I believe your journey has made you ready. I will share my spells with you and teach you more of my songs—everything the wise woman's daughter needs to know.”

A soft breeze blew into the valley. It reminded Grayling of the sea breeze, and she took a fine deep breath. The world seemed to grow wider, in ripples, as if she, Grayling, were a pebble thrust into a pond, and the whole world swirled in circles around her. She knew not what would come of it but felt such a yearning that she could not withstand it. Tucking a sprig of bright red holly berries in her hair, she smiled.

Grayling hurried back into the cottage for her cloak and out again. She found a stout walking stick and looked up the hill she had so recently come down.

Hannah Strong's shoulders sagged as she watched the girl. “I knew from the moment I sent you to save me that this day would come, but so soon?”

“I cannot stay. I trust you can find others to help you boil and brew and learn your songs. I may be the wise woman's daughter, but I have my own song to sing.” Grayling put her arms around her mother. “I will fetch your grimoire from Phinaeus Moon and see it returned to you.”

“Nay, girl, I believe 'tis yours now. From mother to daughter, over generations.” Her mother, not one for hugging, yet hugged Grayling back.

“Farewell, Hannah Strong,” Grayling said.

“Farewell, daughter.”

In her clear true voice, Grayling sang her new song:

Seasons change, winter's nigh.

Leaves change color, fall, and die.

Seasons change, wet and dry.

Even wise folk wonder why

Everything changes by and by.