Ross Lawhead (38 page)

“So the threads can't decide where they go? Or choose what part of pattern they're in?”

“No, of course not,” said the woman lightly. “How could they?

They're only threads, not people.” She handed the last bowls to Swiðgar and Ecgbryt.

None of the other weavers had stopped working during this exchange. Freya eyed the rolls of fabric. “How long have you been here?” she asked.

“Oh, year unknown upon year innumerable,” came the reply.

“Have you ever tried to leave?”

“Where is there to go?”

“Where do you get the stuff to weave with?” asked Daniel.

“Worms. Little worms. We are provided for. We don't ask for much. Even the meat for the stew comes to us freely.”

Luckily, Daniel and Freya had already eaten a couple mouthfuls of the chunky broth and it tasted good enough to keep them from imagining what they were eating. Whatever it was, it tasted so incredibly good that they didn't want to stop eating. The warmth of the food started in their stomachs and spread to their arms and legs.

“Yes, all manner of things that you wouldn't dream of managin' to fetch up here,” the old woman continued. “You could hardly credit it. All sorts of unimaginable persons and beasts and creatures . . .” Her voice was starting to drone. Daniel's and Freya's hands felt hot and heavy and a couple of sizes too big. Daniel felt himself rocking backwards as Freya began tilting forwards. She wondered if she should stop herself falling asleep but couldn't think of a reason why. It would feel so nice to lie down on the floor and rest.

As Daniel quietly collapsed, he managed to loll his head around to look at Swiðgar and Ecgbryt. They were still awake, but obliviously spooning stew into their mouths. Daniel's eyes closed—or at least he thought that they did. He felt himself spinning downwards even though he knew he wasn't moving, and he slept.

3

Freya woke up with a start. The first thing she was aware of was an odd rhythmic pounding sensation that went through her skull. It took her a few seconds to discover that the pounding was coming from outside her head rather than from the inside. Then she was able to discern chanting above the pounding. The ladies were reciting a work-song. They punctuated its melodic style with stamps of their feet and scrapes and clacks of whatever machine or tool they were using.

“A Brownie takes milk,
takes milk,
Takes milk.
A Brownie takes milk, takes milk.

“Oh, a child will do for a Faerie or Elf,
A Pixie, or Kobold, or Hob.
They will bear it away, to their home in the hills,
And replace it with a small changeling sprite.
But they cannot bide iron, so make you a crib
Out of oak—with nine strong four-inch nails.
And hang up a horseshoe over window and door,
And the imps will as like pass you by,
Wist I,
That the imps will as like pass you by.

“But a Brownie takes milk, will take milk.
Only milk.

Yes, a Brownie takes milk; it takes milk.

“A Troll will want teeth, but will settle for toenails
By the bushel, the yard, or the pound.
And a Giant wants bones he can grind into meal
To make bread for his mother to eat.
Though these beasts are enormous, you will find them
quite slow
At a riddle, a sonnet, or verse.

“They will tear out their hair and will scratch up their face,
But an answer they will give you none, not one!

No, an answer they can give you none.

“And a Brownie will only take milk.
Ever milk.

Yes, a Brownie will only take milk.

“A Dragon wants gold it can put in a pile—
Something to stack and to count.
It may take a maiden, a sheep, or a cow
To assuage it and soothe its fierce greed.
It will give you confusion and fire and doubt,
For its forked tongue spouts flame and deceit.
You can kill it with courage and with valor and steel
But its treasure will not bring you health, Or wealth.

No, its treasure will not bring you health.

“But a Brownie will only take milk
From a mother;

From a mother the Brownie takes milk.

There are others like Ghouls and Zombies and Wights,
Who desire your flesh and your skin.
And the merfolk: the Nyads, the Kelpie, and such,
Are jealous of all mortal souls,

“Much like Bog Sprites and Will o' the Wisps
Who will lead you astray unto death.
They do not have reason or morals, just wit,
So ignore them, and let them pass by, Oh, aye, Just ignore them and they'll pass you by.

“But a Brownie will only take milk
From a mother
That she uses to suckle her child.

“For a Brownie is patient, and a Brownie is sly—
And no matter how the baby does wriggle or cry—
The Brownie will hide and will watch and drink milk,
And will wait for the poor bairn to die.
So place you some buttermilk fresh from the churn
In a dish by the back kitchen door.
Do this every morning and once Sunday evening
And the Brownie will not grieve you more,
No more, Leave some milk from the churn on the floor.

“For a Brownie takes milk, will take milk.
Does take milk.
Yes, a Brownie takes milk; it takes milk.”

The weaving ladies stopped singing at this last, haunting verse, but continued moving their tools and stomping in time.

“What was that?” Freya asked weakly, sitting up. She had been placed on a pile of animal skins and furs. Her head was swimming slightly and her stomach felt queasy.

“You're up, deary,” said the woman at the pot. On second glance, she seemed different from the one who had given them the stew, but it was hard to tell.

“You have quick blood,” said the lady as she hobbled blindly towards her. “Here, chew this.” From the folds in her clothes she produced a kind of twisty, stick-like thing about the size of a toothbrush.

“What is it?”

“Birch bark steeped in ginger. It will still your head and stomach. Go on, take it.
Take
it. You are safe here. The rest did you good, just as it is doing good to your friends there.”

Freya moved her head and saw Daniel and the two knights stretched out beside her, also on skins and furs. They looked peaceful enough. Daniel was curled up on his side and Ecgbryt was snoring. She turned back to the old lady and felt a wave of nausea at the movement. She reached out and took the stick of bark from the woman and stuck it between her teeth.

“Let me help you up,” said the lady. “Try to move around. Take this.” The woman draped a soft, silky shawl over Freya's shoulders and got her to stand. She directed her towards the fire.

“Quick blood,” repeated the woman. “First down, but first up. Fast thoughts and quick judgments. The waters may appear still on top, but there are faster currents underneath, eh?”

“Are you talking about me?”

“Perhaps not so fast then. Allow me to say to you that it does our hearts good to see one of our sisters on a business such as this—does us all good. Wars are unavoidable—some of them are inevitable—but the real business of life is a woman's business.”

Freya was still very groggy and her head felt muzzy. She wasn't taking in much of what the old woman was saying.

“But men always forget that, the dear sweet idiots. Love to fight, bless them, but they too often forget what they're fighting for. Need one of us to remind them of it, on occasion. One that will make them heed. One to make those who lead go someplace, and one to make those who won't be led to follow.”

“Are you talking about me?” Freya asked again, starting to feel better. The odd stick was doing its work and settling her system.

“Ah, a little swifter now, eh? Let's walk. Take my arm.”

They moved away from the camp, Freya guiding the older woman and supporting her by the arm. “So you think I can do this quest sort of thing?” Freya asked when they had crested a ridge and the light from the camp was a pale glow behind them.

“My sweet, you were made for it.”

“Made for it? So do I have a choice?”

“It's who you are, my dear. You can reject it, but you can't change it.”

The old lady was silent for a time, which allowed Freya to think about this.

“In your way,” the woman eventually continued, “you are rarer than any of the others. There will always be fighters—lots of fighters. But not many will be able to do what you will be asked to do. The decisions you will face will affect many, many people.”

“Huh. You know,” Freya began thoughtfully, “back on the surface, where I live, it feels like a lot of people think women aren't as good as men—like we aren't equal.”

“Of course we aren't equal, my dear one. We're much better than they are.”

Freya laughed.

“That was not really in earnest, and also not true. Equal doesn't really enter into it—we will never be equal because there are too many differences. But we're the real doers—the real makers. Men work the fields, hunt the animals, and we make the food and cook the meat. They raise the flocks, and we make the clothes.

They provide the house, and we make a home—the children, the family. All the fruits of man's labor on earth must pass through our hands.”

Freya twirled the stick between her lips. “All the wars,” the woman went on, “all the kickin' and thumpin' that's been done has all been on our account as to make a space for us to do our work. All the kingdoms and walls as has been made has been made to protect us—what's worth protectin'.”

There was a pause and when the old woman spoke again, her voice was lower and colder. “An evil has been building on these shores for some hundreds of years. It's been growing all around and creeping in at the edges, slowly like, so that none would notice at once—and when they did notice, they would be used to it, like. There's many a true heart up there that should be burning hot and bright, but because of the darkness and decay, it is dim and hardly gives a light at all. Us blind weavers may not be able to see with our eyes, but we know how dark the tapestry we're weaving has become. A whole island . . . fallen asleep . . . not knowin' it's bein' sucked into the mire. The world has always carried sickness inside of it, but it is falling into a swoon . . .”

Freya removed the stick from her mouth. “You really think that we can do this—whatever needs to be done?”

“You're the right thread—the right length and the right luster— and you're in the right place. It remains to be proved whether you are strong enough to hold yet. Just remember that inside you bear the strength of hundreds of thousands of your sisters before you. It will guide you, but you must listen to it, and nothing else.”

She left Freya, and the girl remained, staring into the darkness. After a while she sat down and wrapped her arms around her knees and didn't rise again until she heard the voices of the men behind her.

4

They set out from the weaver women's camp feeling more rested than at any time since leaving Niðergeard. They had been given some short strips of dried meat that were as tough as leather but also rather flavorful.

The travelers left the dry island by the same beach that they had arrived. The ground from there onwards continued sloping downwards and they found it getting damper. Then they started coming across large puddles—still, black pools of water. Swiðgar cautioned them to watch their step as there was no telling how deep these pools might be; the surfaces they could see could be just thin films of water on rock, or they could be the skin of a fathomless sinkhole, the currents of which could take them away faster than it was possible to fight.

Even stepping very near the edges of the puddles was a risk, Swiðgar said, as a rocky bank could crumble away. For this reason the travelers spread out and tied the rope to their belts to connect themselves to each other for safety. Swiðgar took the first position with Ecgbryt following directly behind him. Freya and Daniel were led along an unpredictable and erratic path. As the puddles grew wider, more frequent and irregularly shaped, they found themselves at a dead end and were forced to turn back and find a different path.

The air was growing colder, chilled by the dampness that Freya now associated with darkness so deep that it felt massive. Because of the meandering path they were forced to take, their journey over the lake bed plain, although tedious and uneventful, was far from boring. They found the tension and uncertainty exhausting. They took more breaks than they felt were probably necessary. Daniel and Freya would fall to the ground, their heads nearly spinning from all the turns and U-turns they had to make out of dead ends and cul-de-sacs.

In the light of their lamps, they saw a structure ahead of them and they made their way to it. It was another pier, a longer and bigger one, but just as dry and ruined as the last. They scaled the bank and found that the pier was an extension of a large ramp that went steeply upwards. They had no choice but to go up.

They walked many hours and took many breaks, never knowing how high this underground mountain—which is what they came to think of it as—rose ahead of them. The last time Freya could remember climbing so high was while hiking in the Lake District. But climbing so high and still being underground was a very different sensation. She was glad that she couldn't see how far up they were. It felt as if they were leaving the Wild Caves far behind—which she was glad of—but how much farther did they have to climb?