Grayling's Song (15 page)

“Nay,” said Desdemona Cork. “He is but an ordinary young man. 'Tis his gentle kindness that shines.”

Grayling gawked at Desdemona Cork. “I thought you did not notice us ordinary folk.”

Said Desdemona Cork, “I am learning.”

The scream of a seabird interrupted. Was it Pook? Grayling wondered. Or was he still a mouse? Had he come back as she ordered him? If not, where was he? And
what
was he? It was difficult keeping track of a creature that changed its nature so frequently.

Grayling looked at Pansy, across the fire. Firelight made shadows on Pansy's face, which was not stupid and sullen as usual, but sly and malevolent. Had she done something else wicked?

Pook! If she had hurt Pook, Grayling would . . . would . . . what would she do? It would be something severe and horrid.

“Where is Pook?” Grayling asked.

“I am here,” said the mouse as he scrabbled up her arm. “'Twas a long way for a mouse to come. I hurried as fast as I could, but my legs are short and my heart is little. Now I am here, and you are safe.” With a contented huff, he climbed into Grayling's pocket, damp though it was, and settled in for a well-earned rest.

Weary and hungry, the company dozed by the fire. When Grayling woke, the sun was setting over the sea, splashing streaks of pale oranges and golds and a tinge of lavender across the sky where it met the horizon. The air was rich with the smell of salt and seaweed. Phinaeus Moon had gathered clams and mussels and periwinkles from the shore. Sylvanus pried open the shells with his knife, Desdemona Cork rinsed them in seawater, and Auld Nancy wrapped them in sea lettuce and cooked them briefly on the hot coals. Grayling gathered berries and wild celery. It was not much of a supper for six, for they let Pansy share, but it did taste good.

“We must leave here,” Sylvanus said through a mouthful of berries. “We must see whether our deeds have truly broken the spell and what damage has been done.”

“What if nothing has changed?” asked Grayling. “What if the grimoires have flown off, but people are still rooted? What if the force did not dissipate in the sea but is still there, and Pansy cannot call it back, nor can you?”

Sylvanus wiped his mouth with his beard. “Soft, girl, soft. Don't fall off the cliff until you get to the edge. We shall see what we shall see.”

That is the worry,
thought Grayling.
What
shall
we see?

In the morning, Phinaeus Moon bade them farewell. He would be going north along the seashore while the others walked east, back the way they had come. “How will I recover the grimoire?” Grayling asked him.

“Sing to it, and follow. It will be waiting.” With a wink, a grin, and a whistle, he was off, headed north.

Grayling watched him go, her heart suddenly sore. Soon the others would be leaving her also. She was at last free to see about her mother, but she could not imagine her days without them.

Stumbling and limping, the remaining travelers pushed through the woods, up hills and down, over ditches and fallen logs, until they came to a road. The walking was easier then, and the company had gone some ways when a small open carriage with a noble crest on the door came up behind them on the road. Desdemona Cork tossed her hair and twitched her shawls, and the carriage stopped.

“What about your cottage by the sea?” Grayling asked, grabbing Desdemona Cork's arm. “Goat cheese and apples? Remember? You can stop enchanting and bake bread.” She untangled a leaf of wild celery that was stuck in the enchantress's cloud of hair.

“I am what I am,” said Desdemona Cork. She flashed Grayling a smile of rare loveliness, and Grayling felt again the pull of the woman's power.

Grayling unwrapped the gold and blue shawl from around her shoulders and handed it to Desdemona Cork.

“Nay, keep it,” said Desdemona Cork. “Think on me from time to time, wind in my hair, spinning by the sea. No matter that I will not be there.” She climbed into the carriage, which continued on its way, blowing a great dust storm up in its wake.

Those left behind coughed and rubbed their eyes. Auld Nancy, angry, lifted her broom. “We shall see how enchanting she be with rain in her face!”

Grayling took her hand. “Your rain, like your anger, Auld Nancy, will fall on all of us.”

Auld Nancy grumbled but put her broom down.

Two were gone now. Grayling would never smell sweet blossoms or feel soft sun on her face without thinking of Desdemona Cork.

They began again to walk, away from the sea, away from their adventures, toward home.

Pansy dawdled behind the rest and whined. “Sylvanus, I want to ride the mule. My feet are blistered and sore tired, and my head hurts.”

“If you hadn't wearied yourself with devilment, you would not be tired out now,” Sylvanus called to her. Pansy opened her mouth to speak, but Sylvanus silenced her with a wave of his hand. “I will not burden him. Nostradamus has a far way to go to Nether Finchbeck.”

Pansy dragged and shuffled her feet but finally caught up with the others. “Tell me more of this place,” she said to Sylvanus.

“Nether Finchbeck?” His eyes unfocused, as if he were looking far into the distance and back into the past at the same. “Nether Finchbeck. A glorious institution of learning and spelling and necromancing, where mystery and manifestations of brilliance share the day with sheer befuddlement.”

“I long to be a powerful magician,” said Pansy. “Take me with you.”

“Nay, never,” said Sylvanus, shaking his head. “Or leastwise, not now. You have much to learn before you can be considered for Nether Finchbeck. You will go with Auld Nancy for the learning of it.”

“Nay,” said Pansy.

Sylvanus frowned at her. “'Twill be worth the effort, girl, to achieve mastery, and power, and a thoughtful nature. After all, ‘an empty head makes noise but no sense.'”

Pansy was silent, though her face was stormy.

The day was cold but sunny. Thin clouds made pictures in the sky and then passed on. Grayling and Auld Nancy now lagged behind the other two, for Auld Nancy's weary bones slowed her down and Grayling was loath to leave the old woman's side. Folks passed to and fro on the road, often gawking at the four bedraggled strangers with the mule, but none stopped to engage them. Had any of them been rooted to the ground and then set free? Grayling wondered. Or were the trees at the roadside more than they seemed?

Long past noon, they reached a crossroads. “We part ways here,” Sylvanus said. “I must make certain the evil has passed and all is as it was before.”

Pansy grabbed Sylvanus's sleeve. “Take me with you! I have skills. You have seen them. Teach me to do great magic.”

Sylvanus pulled his arm away. “Nay, I said. I have seen your skills overcome by emotions you could not control. Your envy, greed, and anger burst forth in the power of the smoke and shadow, and you endangered us all. Auld Nancy has much to teach you.”

“I do not want to learn. I want to do!”

“And that is the primary reason you go with Auld Nancy.” Pansy's face crumpled. “And, you,” Sylvanus said to Grayling, “you have proved yourself clever and brave.”

“Nay, I was most fearful, for I knew I had no magic to help me.”

Sylvanus whistled to his mule. “Only the very stupid do not fear danger,” he said. “And as for magic, the great wizard Gastronomus Bing of happy memory said true magic is like a sausage.”

Auld Nancy and Pansy listened intently, while Grayling's jaw dropped in befuddlement. “Sausage? How sausage?”

“Made of bits and pieces of things everyone has—not pork and spices but tricks and charms, aptitudes and powers, some herbs, some skill and training, and some luck.” He tightened the straps of the saddlebags on the mule, and Nostradamus grunted. “The world is full of mystery. Not everything can be explained. Does that make it magic? You could sing to the grimoire with no words and no music and hear it singing back. How? Was this magic? Was it in you? In the song? Or does it speak of a bond between you and the grimoire?” Sylvanus pushed a wisp of hair from Grayling's face. “And there is magic of sorts in your courage and your keen wits, the songs you called upon, and your caring heart.”

Grayling sniffed. Whatever skills she had were not at all awesome and astounding, not what she would call magical. She could not command smoke and shadow or shroud a boy in a glamour spell as Pansy had. But Pansy's magic just caused trouble. Did magic always bring trouble? Would having magic be worth being as irritating and vexatious as Pansy?

“How was it, Sylvanus,” Grayling asked him, “that you knew nothing of the smoke and shadow and the damage it caused when we found you?”

“I was elsewhere, traveling,” said Sylvanus, “partaking of the pure aether there beyond the moon . . .”

Grayling ruckled her forehead in suspicion.

“Aye, you have the right of it. In truth,” he said, “I knew of the smoke and shadow, and I had concluded that the force's magic was so strong it could not be defeated by more magic, but might feed off it and grow stronger. The force would be vanquished, I determined, only through courage, cleverness, imagination, good judgment, and good sense. I waited for someone with those qualities, for you. And you proved me right.”

Grayling looked at him in wonder.

“I do have some useful skills,” Sylvanus told her. “The school at Nether Finchbeck does not employ me merely for my handsome face. Now I must go.”

He dropped a handful of copper coins into Grayling's hand. “Fare thee well, lass. Perchance we might meet again.” He touched his hand to his head in a salute as he walked off, leading the mule one way, leaving Grayling and Auld Nancy and Pansy to go another.

Grayling called to Sylvanus, “You never told us—what is the
first
rule of magic?”

He spun round and called back to her, “'Tis the hardest rule to learn: magic is not the answer. Magic may be convenient, brilliant, even dazzling, but it is not the answer.” He waved once to her before he turned and walked on.

rayling dropped
the coins into her pocket, and Pook thrashed and grumbled in irritation as they landed on his head. Eager to see what awaited her, she turned her feet toward home. Where the road was rocky, she trod carefully, for the soles of her shoes were as thin as a poor man's soup. On paths smooth and soft she hurried her steps, though she felt ever so weary.

Auld Nancy, grown fine and thin and feeble, struggled, her shoulders slumped and breath ragged, and a sullen Pansy lagged behind. Pook slept most of the time in Grayling's pocket, snoring small mouse snores. Their adventures had tired him, too.

Days dragged on, but soon the world around her began to look familiar, and her heart leaped. She had admired that church, fancied that cottage, run from those dogs. It seemed a lifetime since they had passed this way. She had expected to be joyful and relieved after the defeat of the smoke and shadow, but her mind was uneasy, and her humors disordered. Her steps grew slower and slower as they passed the remnants of the silk pavilion, flapping in the autumn breeze.

They were near to the crossroads where the metal-nosed warlord had accosted them, and though travelers were plentiful on this stretch of road, Grayling's belly tightened with dread. To calm herself, she imagined the difficulties the man must have: sneezing his nose off, blowing a nose rusted in the rain, kissing Lady Metal Nose. She tried to laugh at the ridiculous images, but even as a daydream, his face frightened her, so she thought of more pleasant things: misty mornings, the smell of mint leaves brewed in hot water, robins in the spring, cabbage cooked with apples, yellow cheese and sausages and warm dark bread.

She turned to share this with Auld Nancy, but Auld Nancy was a ways behind, sitting on the roadside with Pansy beside her.

“Turnips and thunderstorms,” Grayling muttered in annoyance as she retraced her steps.

“Leave me, girl,” said Auld Nancy. “I am weary in my bones and can go no farther.”

“Fie, you know I would not leave you here,” Grayling said. “Sit and rest those weary bones awhile, and I will join you, for if my feet could talk, they would whine and complain and beg for a rest.” She dropped down beside the old woman.

Pansy's belly rumbled a loud rumble. “My belly is empty all the way to the ground,” she said, “and these legs can go no more. There be an inn up this road. I saw it when we passed in the wagon of the warlord. Can we not spend some of Sylvanus's coins on bread and mayhap a bed?”

Grayling shook her head. “Nay, we may yet need them.”

Pansy crossed her arms. “You sound like my mother. I have no need of another mother. I need supper.”

Dark clouds moved over them and rain began, whispering through the trees and pocking the ground. Water dripping from her hair, her nose, her fingertips, Grayling turned to Auld Nancy. “Auld Nancy, we are discomfited enough. Will you not stop the rain?”