The Wealding Word (5 page)

“Maybe we can help,” Nell said. Though the hairy little man looked rather odd, he certainly wasn’t a grumlin. She and Rawley dragged the branch away from the tree to reveal a door nestled among its roots.

“Thank you indeed.” Tomkin grumbled. Begrudgingly he said, “Hrrmmph. And now I must repay you with a favor: such is the way of the Groomlanen. But you can’t tell people you’ve seen me. I’ve no wish to spend my life in a cage!” He took hold of his door handle, saying, “If ever you lose your way in the weald, call for me,
Tomkin. If perchance I hear you, I’ll answer.” With that, the tiny door slammed shut.

Nell remembered the acorn in her pocket. She knew that, despite his words, she might never meet this little forest troll again. Now could be her only chance to reach the witch’s tower. “Wait!” she yelled. “Can you take me to the white tower? To the Witch of the Weald?”

Rawley and Sola looked at each other questioningly. The cat ventured, “But why? She’s probably forgotten all about the bracelet.”

The door squeaked open just enough for Tomkin’s long nose to poke out. “That is a very odd favor to ask.”

“I need to see her,” Nell pleaded, “I lost a bracelet of hers, but I have something else to make up for it. Please, can you take me to see Lady Zel?”

The door opened a little more, revealing a tangle of beard. “Well…” Tomkin hesitated, “if it’s what you wish, so be it! But the way runs through Murkly Marsh.” He wagged his finger in warning. “It’s a long, hard journey in the swamp – and it’ll take most of the day. I hope you know what you’ve asked for!”

Nell didn’t. She hadn’t considered the distance, or the dismal marsh: the swamp was a well-known haunt for knucklers, grumlins, and candlewisps. Suddenly it didn’t seem so important to meet the witch, at least not
today
.

Seeing Nell fret, Rawley licked at her hand. “It will be all right. Tomkin knows every path. Besides, I’ll be there with you.”

The troll soon returned from his tree carrying a cloth-covered basket. Before anyone could speak, he grumbled, “All favors are final! It’s one less promise hanging over my head.” He peered at Nell, shaking his great beard in disapproval. “Umhm. Where’s your coat? It’s midwinter!
You people,”
he fumed, “always rushing into things! Well, too late for it now. Off we go!”

C
HAPTER
4

M
URKLY
M
ARSH

The friends set out toward the swamps with Tomkin. As Nell followed him, she couldn’t help but recall the trolls from Lexi’s stories. Always they had mossy beards drooping to their feet, hot tempers, and an evil magic about them – but while Tomkin was fiery, Nell doubted he was dangerous. He often tripped on his beard, and would gingerly tuck it under his arm when they came to a thorny patch. Occasionally he did battle with the pickers, wielding his tiny walking stick and scolding the canes that snagged at him.

Sola whined as they walked, “I hate this marsh! It’s the middle of the day but the place is so dark.”

Nell looked up at the dank layers of gray pressing down on them from above. She felt like she was in a cavern rather than out of doors. “Do people really die in the swamp?” she asked, gripping her golden acorn.

“Of course,” Tomkin said. “The place is full of snakes, knucklers, and candlewisps. I don’t want to go here any more than you, but a promise is a promise, and
you
insisted.”

Nell exclaimed,
“You
said I couldn’t change my mind!”

“I said no such thing!”

Nell groaned, exasperated with the little man.

The way became slushy as they wound deeper into the marsh, squelching with every step. Wide expanses of water loomed on
either side, with dead trees and high brown reeds poking up from the scum. A crow perched on one of the barren branches, watching the travelers pass below.

Sola shivered, shaking her cold, wet feet. “My paws are frozen!” From the north, the wind began to blow, and Nell wished now that she remembered her coat.

Rawley didn’t mind as much. Spotting a frog the size of Sola, he dove into one of the pools and came out green with slime. The crow took flight at the splashing, flapping away with a croak of displeasure.

Tomkin hooted at the slimy dog, “Now you look like a grumlin!”

Nell shivered, remembering the fishy stench and strong, webbed claws of the creature at the trapdoor. The further they went into the swamp, the more she feared meeting another. She crowded close behind her guide, thinking Tomkin might somehow protect her from the dangers of the marsh. When he stopped abruptly to test the air with his nose, Nell stumbled into him. On one such occasion he exploded: “Do I look like a carpet? No! Well then it’s no good stepping on me!” Tomkin’s hairy nostrils flared at her, but his temper cooled almost as quickly as it erupted. After he finished sniffing about, he said, “Eh, calm down. Your worrying stinks worse than a grumlin.”

“You can smell my… worry?” she asked.

“Of course! And it is a most offensive odor. Almost as bad as guilt!” The troll cleared his nostrils into the reeds. “Relax. Candlewisps only come out at night.” He made no such claims for the snakes, grumlins, and knucklers though.

On and on they trekked, skirting slimy pools, scaling walls of webby bracken, and ducking under oversized mushrooms. Everything was wet and drear and miserable.

“Well, here we are!” Tomkin announced suddenly. Ahead, Nell could see a small shanty surrounded by a few stunted cottonwoods. It was one of the few patches of solid ground in the swamp.

Nell looked around in confusion. “This isn’t the witch’s tower.”

“No, no, girl. This is Peter Domani’s house. He’s a bit of a recluse.”

“The hermit?” Nell remembered seeing the smelly old man in her village, and she had no wish to visit his house. Though she was cold and soaked through, the decrepit shed promised her little comfort. “But I want to see the witch, not him.”

“I said I would take you to her, and I will. But every time I pass this way, I bring Peter some bread. It’s my favor to him… even though he’s a miserable lump of sod.”

“Why doesn’t he live somewhere better?” Nell asked, rubbing her shoulders against the chill. “The swamp is so dark.”

“He’s a stubborn fool, that’s why. Poor as dirt, and not much for conversation.” The troll scratched his bald head. “I’d say the marsh suits him just fine.”

“Sounds mad,” Sola quipped.

“Oh hush, cat,” said Rawley. The gloom of the swamp was seeping into him too. It seemed to Nell that Rawley said something more, but at that moment the dog’s voice was lost to her. Perhaps the heavy air was clouding her ears as well.

They approached the hermit’s hovel: a squat, one-roomed structure slumped on a barren plot of mud. A timid thread of smoke laced from its chimney. Tomkin banged on the door with his walking stick and then waited. Sola licked her paws, Rawley scratched his ear, and Nell clutched her arms, doubtful the hermit was even home. Tomkin rapped again.

Nothing happened for a long time.

After a third set of knocks, the door creaked open and an old man peeked out. Bent and frail, he had wispy gray hair and several days’ white stubble on his face. He squinted at them all until Tomkin grumped, “Peter, it’s me you blind fool! I have a basket.”

“Eh, why didn’t you say so?” The hermit’s voice was cracked and nasally, like it came from his head, not his chest. He had the weary look of a man long afflicted with a toothache. “Come in then.”

Peter Domani’s home had but a single candle for light, and a few red embers blinking in the fireplace. Towers of stacked books formed a labyrinth tottering from floor to ceiling. A few piles of smaller books supported the larger ones, creating low tables for other books to sit on. Rawley would have knocked down more than one wobbling tower if Nell didn’t hurry behind, steadying them at the last moment. “Be careful,” she whispered at the border collie. “If you knock one down, they might all go.”

The hermit stared at Nell with murky eyes, wondering why she wasted her breath explaining things to a dog. Stiffly he shuffled a few books so that Nell and Tomkin could sit around a table – though it was really another enormous book. Its blackened goatskin cover, thoroughly stained with water rings and grease, gave no hint as to what its pages might contain. Having never finished learning her letters, Nell was unimpressed by the hermit’s leaning library.

They all shared Tomkin’s basket of bread and gooseberry jam. After dolling out lunch, the troll seemed content with his own thoughts. Peter opened a small book and buried his face in it, occasionally licking jam from his fingers. Nell considered the scholarly hermit as she chewed her bread in the silence. He wasn’t scary after all, just very poor, and all alone. In fact, she felt sad for him. It seemed that he had lost something important long ago, and had given up on ever finding it again. Or maybe he thought he might find it in a book.

After everyone finished, Peter put aside his reading. It was clear he hadn’t spoken to many adults lately, much less to a young girl. He tried to bring Nell into focus, scrunching up his cheeks to see her properly in the dim. “Emm, well… Tomkin’s new friend, are you? Perhaps come to borrow a book?”

When she merely shrugged, the old man quickly lost interest in her. Turning to Tomkin he said, “I thought your kind could keep out of sight with your binviziling and whatnot. Not so spritely these days, eh Tom?”

“It’s the wind’s fault,” grumbled Tomkin.

“Tomkin is leading me to the witch’s tower,” Nell offered after a pause.

“Eh? Which witch?” Peter asked.

“The sorceress Zel, the one who lives in the tower. I lost her bracelet, but I have this to make up for it.” She held out her hand, flashing the golden acorn as though it gave her the credentials for such an undertaking.

The hermit squinted at Nell’s outstretched palm, but in the dim light he soon gave up trying to see what she held. “Yeeesss… I’m sure she would like that very much,” he replied, speaking to Nell as though she were three, not thirteen.

Silence prevailed once again. Sola went to the door, rubbing against the jamb as Peter began clearing crockery. Sighing, Nell looked around the ramshackle house, and at the rags the hermit wore. He was so thin and hungry, so blind and bitter. And very poor, just like her. She remembered the sorceress’ fine purple shawl, and her tall, white tower shining in the middle of the forest. Lady Zel could afford to lose a bracelet of pure silver without noticing, but the old hermit hadn’t enough money even for a loaf of bread. Surely he could use a gift of gold more than Zel. “Mr. Domani,” she said. “I… maybe you should have it instead.”

“But it’s for the witch!” Rawley barked.

“I-I know that’s what the old tree said.”

“Old tree? Said?” Peter poked up a fluffy white eyebrow at Nell’s words.

Nell knew she was supposed to give the acorn to the sorceress, but something told her it was better to give to the hermit. “I want you to have it,” she repeated.

“Well, it that’s what you want, then I accept your gift,” he said, still unsure what he was being given. “The sorceress and me go back a long way. Too long. Any gift that’s good enough for her is good enough for me.” Reaching out a papery hand, Peter took the token Nell offered, now quite interested in what this gift intended for Lady Zel might be. “Hmmm? You say you got this from an old tree? You can’t mean the Aureate Oak?” He brought the acorn up close to inspect.

Tomkin piped in, a queer look on his face. “The Aureate gave that to you?”

“I don’t know,” said Nell. “A tree with golden leaves gave it to me. He thought the witch might like the acorn.”

Peter cackled, “The old tree! The Oak is talking again!” It was the first real sign of life she’d seen in him. “You spoke to the Aureate!” he said, laughing with Tomkin. Suddenly the old man got up and threw on his patchwork coat. “Well now,
this
is news!”

“Where are you going?” Nell asked in alarm.

“Outside! Outside! To plant your gift!” he said. “We’ll see what Lady Zel thinks of that.”

Nell couldn’t believe he would throw away real gold! “Wait!” She chased after him, upsetting a pile of books in the process. “Wait!”

Peter was determined to complete his plan, however. Then and there he dug a small hole in the mud and placed the acorn inside. Bending low, gray-stubbled lips just above the ground, he whispered to the mound of earth. Nell couldn’t make out his words, but the sound was gentle, as though waking a child from a deep sleep. The hermit gave her a gap-toothed grin as he hoisted himself up, hands and knees black with mud. “Now, let’s see what happens!”

Nell hung her head, letting her copper-streaked hair fall about her face. Her gift for the sorceress was now buried in the dirt, and she was back where she started. “But it’s gold,” she said feebly. “You could buy lots of food, a real house in town…” Her words died on
her lips as a slender shoot suddenly popped up from the earth, a leaf of gold uncurling itself atop it.

“It worked!” Tomkin exclaimed. Nell was surprised to see a similar look of shock on the hermit’s face, as though he too was trying to believe the wonder of it. Higher and higher the sapling grew, with new leaves and branches spiraling out all around. They made a tinkling music, reflecting the scant light of the marsh and growing brighter every moment. The somber clouds overhead quickly shredded to reveal the blue beyond, and a great smothering weight seemed to lift from the swamp.