Mistle Child (Undertaken Trilogy) (9 page)

“It is a family visit,” Silas said hesitantly. He didn’t want to tell them he had been invited, that the name of the house had been carved into his front door. He wanted to know what they knew.

The first of the three reached over, and with a long, pale, pointed finger, she gently tapped Silas’s chest in the very place where his pendant lay under his shirt. She smiled as she withdrew her hand. “You’re going for more than a Sunday dinner, I warrant.”

Silas avoided her comment and continued.

“I mean, will the place look like that?” He gestured at the tapestry.

“Perhaps it will. At some other time, for someone else, perhaps only a ruin.”

“For me?”

“Much more than that, I suspect. If you can get past the gates, it is very likely that a fine supper and many more familial curiosities await you. Onerous obligations, too. Isn’t family funny like that?”

“Will I be welcome there?”

“Oh, that is certain, for you’re family—” said the third before being cut off by the second.

“Though it’s always wise to have a care, yes, even with kin. Especially with a clan so large and old as yours. The values of one age do not always hold true for another. And family secrets can be so curious, can’t they? Who knows what skeletons you’ll find in the closets, or what dark, forgotten caskets lie strewn in the basement? Oh, the things we fill our houses with! Remember who you are and what your father has taught—”

“Enough!” said the first. “Let him see what he shall see.”

Silas could tell they were weary with being questioned and were becoming annoyed. There were no particularly terrible portents; that was a comfort. But they had begun teasing him and arguing among themselves, which usually meant it was a good time to go.

“I thank you, ladies. With your blessing, I’ll take my leave.”

“Isn’t he clever?” the third said, looking at the first, who nodded in agreement. “Very well.”

The three raised their bone-white hands with their palms open toward Silas and bowed their heads. On the air between them flowed a low chorus of indiscernibly ancient words that fell upon Silas like a breeze scented with the perfume of lavender and rosemary and the salt tang of the sea. Then the three said, “With our blessing, then.”

Silas walked toward the stairs.

“And Silas, dear?” said the first.

He paused at the landing. “Yes? Most fateful and reverend ladies.”

The second leaned over to the third and whispered dreamily, “I love it when he talks like that,
really
I do.”

Ignoring the other two, the first of the three continued, “See you on the other side.”

“You are going to Arvale too?” Silas asked with surprise.

“Not exactly. Simply, we have sometimes been there before, or rather, we have been places that were once connected to what that place has now become.” They gestured once more toward the weaving. “That house and its domains are very old indeed, and share more than one frontier with our own . . .
sphere of influence
. Perhaps we shall pass one another in the halls, if you can stand the presence of even
more
old women meddling in your life. Yes, yes. We may see you on the other side of the gate, though we may not be as you are used to seeing us. Who can say? For
over there
, we often appear as we were, not as we are.”

“Ladies, I beg you. Can you speak more plainly?”

“Simply then, because you’re so polite: We used to travel a lot, in our earlier, more fashionable days. We were older then, and perhaps a little wiser, never staying too long in one place. We used to keep a little pied-à-terre at Arvale. The light was always so good and the views are still accounted very fine. Depending on when you arrive, you may find us in residence.”

“I am going today—”

The third shook her head.

“He really doesn’t get it, does he?”

“Ladies, do you mean that you’re
already
there, or that you’re—”

“It is as we’ve said: We are who we were, and for that matter, so are you.”

Impatient with explication, the three faded back into the dark interior of the room to resume their needlework, but continued talking softly, almost mockingly as they spoke over Silas. “Just you hurry to the gate! So many things to be found! Lost and found both! Such marvels await you beyond the gate. We promise, Little Bird, we promise! You hurry to the gate and see!”

At Silas’s departure, the ladies of the Sewing Circle turned back to look upon their handiwork.

“It’s all redundancy! The same designs here and here and here! I like it not,” said the third, already beginning to pick and fuss at the worn threads.

“
Patterns
are our business,” said the first. “What has happened shall happen again. Look here!” she said, pointing to a tree worked out in very old, faded, green silk. Among its roots were stitched tiny bones and little leaves. “Loss shall call out to loss down through the ages.”

“But we cannot lose him now,” said the third.

“True enough,” replied the second.

The third drew forth her needle and quickly embroidered the outline of a comet above the tree.

“What are you doing?” asked the first and second.

“Signs and portents,” said the third, not looking up from her work. “Signs and portents. How else will he find the Mistle Child and come home to us?”

“His path is set. You may not change it, nor add what is yet to come.”

“This little part has happened already, long ago. I am merely catching up with some unfinished work,” said the third.

The first and second nodded, and drawing out their needles and thread, joined their sister at the tapestry.

L
EDGER

Of all the omens from the old Northern Lore, the Washer at the Ford was the most harrowing. She would be found in the rivers or streams, cleaning the blood from the garments of some family member or other destined to die. But her appearances were various, for, on rare occasion, she might grant wishes or settle blessings upon those who were making errand to ill places for the sake of ancestral obligation.

—
FROM
P
RIMITIVE AND
P
A
GAN—
A
N
A
CCOUNT OF
E
NDURING
N
ORTHERN
C
USTOMS
by
R
ICHARD
U
MBER

T
HE PATH TO
A
RVALE
stood at the very end of Fort Street. So Silas had decided to visit his great-grandfather before taking the short walk to the gates.

As he approached the stream that separated Fort Street from the town, bare trees and sharp-tipped reeds stood their ground against the cold wind. Silas saw a familiar figure standing in the midst of the water.

“Mrs. Gray?”

“Aye, Master Umber.”

“May I ask what you’re doing in the stream?”

“This is the old Washing Place. Farther on in both directions the stream is deeper than it looks. Folks used to come here to cross and for washing, for it is very low just here, and the crossing is less hazardous.” She stood in water up to her thighs and the cold stream swirled her apron about her in spirals and eddies of trailing, threadbare calico.

“Are you no longer working at my mother’s house?”

“Aye. I am. But the house’s needs are few, now that neither you nor your uncle is in residence. I gave the place a good going-over after his departure. All’s well there, I think. Your mother has taken on other help, so really, she has little need of me most days. But don’t worry, young master. I’ve been looking out for her. She is as well as might be expected. Perhaps a little better.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gray. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help. I know my mother is glad for it too.”

“Aye, but she don’t say, do she?” Mrs. Gray smiled. “No matter. I know she values good work, even if she’s not the type to say ‘thank you.’”

Mrs. Gray moved slowly through the water, appearing to glide as she got closer to the shore. “Will you be coming across?” she said, extending a hand.

Something in the gesture made Silas shudder, and he took a step back. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Gray. But, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll use the bridge.”

“Suit yourself, Master Umber. To each his own way.”

Silas saw something half-hidden behind her in the water and moved forward again, closer to the water’s edge.

“Is that one of my shirts?”

“Aye. I’ll be finished with it soon, I hope.”

“Did I leave that at my mother’s? Why are you washing it? And why here?” Silas asked, though he knew he hadn’t left it. He had worn that shirt within the last week.

“Bloody stains! It’s the very devil to get them out! I used to wash all the clothes of the family and don’t mind this sort of work. And the water of the stream is most suitable. Don’t worry, Master Umber! I shall not cease, I shall not. Not till all be clean. Not till all be washed clean of their earthly troubles.”

Silas didn’t want to ask more. He was strangely positive that he didn’t want that shirt back, ever. He decided to think of it as an offering. To the stream or Mrs. Gray, he wasn’t exactly certain. Looking at the old woman standing in the black water, he said, “Are you sure you won’t let me help you out, Mrs. Gray? You must be freezing.”

“Nay,” she replied as she swung the wet shirt against a rock. “We both have our chores; you to yours, me to mine, Master Umber. Besides, there’s worse things than a bit of cold.”

Silas said farewell to Mrs. Gray and crossed the bridge onto Fort Street, moving into the shadows cast down by a low winter sun behind the trees growing tall and wild there. Spiky bushes rose up from enormous cracks in the pavement, and high brown weeds and gray ropey vines ran with abandon from the gardens of the dilapidated mansions out into the street. Even now, with most of the trees bare as bones, Silas wondered how long it would be until everything on Fort Street was covered in green, hidden below broad leaves and aspiring creepers. Up ahead, he saw the gate to his great-grandfather’s house, the path still clear from his many visits. But as he walked across his great-grandfather’s yard, Silas could see how the vines and shrubs were merely waiting for the spring. The winter-paused plants were poised, ready to renew their assault on the house where his great-grandfather had lived and died and yet endured.

L
EDGER

It is their particular and willful insistence on continuation that is most unnatural and abhorrent. The Restless make a mockery of the living, pretending to take part in life’s minor and major scenes and acts. They pay no heed to death and so bring down the wrath of Mors upon every family or dynasty in which they endure. And so we must work the Doom against them though they be kin and our love for them be true and enduring. Only the Doom may dissolve both stubborn flesh and wandering spirit both without prejudice or preference. There is no other way. “Earth to Earth” must be the motto of all, or else all is lost.