Grayling's Song(13)

Thus ends the first day of our trek together, thought Grayling, captured and caged like dancing bears. If only Desdemona Cork had not left them! She could have enchanted the soldiers—perhaps even the man with the metal nose, if such could be enchanted. The captives would likely be in a fine house right now, supping on partridge and elderberry wine, instead of in a cage in the cold with their bellies woefully empty.

Then there was silence, until a man’s voice said, “You stay here and guard them.”

“Why me? Be you afeared of them witches?” another voice asked.

Scuffle, scuffle, Grayling heard, and then there was quiet again except for the snuffling and spitting of the man who had lost the scuffle.

Auld Nancy moved to Grayling’s side. “I found a bit of spider web for your cheek,” she whispered. She clucked in concern as she gently applied the web to Graylings’s cut with her warm hand.

“You,” said a voice both cold and stony. “You witches, I have use for your magic.”

“We,” said Auld Nancy with an impatient sigh, “are not that kind of witch.”

The voice came closer, and so did the speaker, the warlord with the nose of metal. He thrust his face against the branches of their cage and shouted, “I need witch magic, and but for you three, I find no witch, no magician, no wizard abroad in the land!”

“Aye, we know,” said Auld Nancy. “’Twas an evil force took them, and we think we can set it to rights if you would but free us.”

“Free you? Nay! I need gold, and I need more armed men. You will use your spells, your curses, your powers, whatever you possess, to see that I get them.” A tiny ray of moonlight shimmered off the tip of his nose, and Grayling shuddered. “I need the Earl of Whetstone’s soldiers to turn and run. And the earl himself I wish gone—whether he dies or leaves the kingdom or just, whoosh, disappears, it is up to you, but I want him gone.” He slowly paced the breadth of the cage and back, his steps echoing through the courtyard like funeral drums. “I want a cloak of invisibility, a binding spell, and an assortment of poisons that act quickly and surely.”

Auld Nancy stamped her foot. “You do not listen. We do not have such powers and cannot—”

The man slammed his hand against the branches of their prison. “You will do as I tell you, or you will remain caged like monkeys until the flesh falls off your bones.” He stalked off, shouting over his shoulder, “You will have no food nor drink until I get what I want. And if you remain stubborn, I will have you disemboweled, one by one.”

There was a short silence, and then, “I’m frightened,” Pansy said with a snuffle, “and terribly hungry. What do we now?”

“At the moment, there is nothing to do,” said Auld Nancy. “We are at that man’s mercy, may maggots build nests in his hair!”

Grayling considered their situation. Likely her mother would know what to do or rather what to tell Grayling to do, but her mother was partway to being a tree. Roots and rutabagas! Grayling herself would have to think of something. In frustration she shook the sides of the cage.

“Gray Eyes,” said a voice from above. A raven had landed on the roof of the cage. “Gray Eyes,” it repeated, “this Pook is with you. Is there aught he can do?” With a cronk and a shaking of his feathers, the raven became a mouse again. He fell through the bars of the cage and landed with a tiny ooof! at Auld Nancy’s feet.

Auld Nancy studied him. “Can you not change into something useful—a strong knife, mayhap, or a torch?”

“Or a joint of beef?” asked Pansy.

Ignoring them both, Pook asked again, “Gray Eyes, is there aught that this Pook can do for you?”

“Certes,” said Grayling, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “I wish to be gone from here! How will you make that happen?”

After a moment of silence, the mouse said, “There are two things this Pook might do. One, turn himself into a mad bull and tear down this cage. Two, this mouse can remain a mouse and chew through it.”

“Oh, Pook, you can help me! Which will you do?”

More silence. “This mouse is compelled to tell the truth. He does not in fact know how to change into a mad bull, so he shall immediately commence chewing. A hole large enough for you to climb through should take”—the moon reflected in the mouse’s tiny eyes as they shifted this way and that around the cage—“a month or so.”

“A month? Oh, mousie, a month? ’Twill not do. We will be long dead ere a month has passed.” Grayling slumped against the cage.

“Nay, mistress, do not despond,” said the mouse. “Trust this mouse and wait here.” And he skittered away. Grayling smiled through her tears. Wait here? Where else?

The three sat together on one side of the cage. Grayling huddled against the warmth that was Auld Nancy, comforted by the familiar aroma of sweat and smoke and sausages. The others dozed, but Grayling, plagued with visions of disemboweling, could not rest.

Some time had passed when she heard a sound, the sound of the wind stripping the grain on a wheat field, or a thousand tailors scissoring cloth, or . . . or . . . or an army of mice chewing through hazel branches—chiff chiff, chiff chiff, chiff chiff!

She peered through the darkness. Indeed mice beyond counting were at the other side of the cage, tumbling over each other, gnawing and tearing their way through the branches that served as bars. The noise grew louder as their number grew. Chiff chiff, chiff chiff, chiff chiff.