Grayling's Song(18)

“When shall we rest?” asked Pansy. “I am fair spent. And when shall we eat?”

No one had answers. The way seemed to Grayling much longer afoot than it had in the back of a caged wagon, but at least they were not captives.





VIII





t last they reached the road west once more. There the setting sun illuminated a fantastical pavilion of marigold silk that flapped and fluttered in the breeze, making waves of golden cloth. At one side were a coach, paneled in green leather with brass fittings and scarlet window curtains, and a coachman asleep on the seat.

Before the pavilion stood a man. A very rich man, Grayling guessed, as she studied his velvet jacket, snow white breeches, and high-heeled black leather boots. He stood motionless, like a statue, like someone under a spell. A spell! Had the evil force been here? She took Auld Nancy and Pansy each by a hand, ready to flee.

Then from the pavilion came the aroma of roasting meat. And apple blossoms, out of season and unexpected, so all the more sweet. And lavender, mint, and rich honey.

Of course! Desdemona Cork! Grayling breathed out with relief. Desdemona Cork!

The lovely woman parted the silks and beckoned them in. Awestruck, Grayling looked about her. Draperies of crimson and indigo damask there were, and lavishly cushioned couches, beeswax candles and flaming torches, and small fires in bronze braziers warming the air.

While Grayling stood astounded, Pansy hobbled in and, with a great sigh, flopped onto a couch of ruby velvet. Auld Nancy, however, stopped at the entrance. “How come you by all this luxury?” she asked, frowning at Desdemona Cork. “You cannot be trusted, enchantress that you are. Who has given you all this to trap us?”

“Muzzle your tongue, grouching old crone,” said Desdemona Cork. “The mayor of the town found himself besotted with me and furnished all you see. You and your ill temper are welcome to share it or not, as you choose.”

Auld Nancy, bent with fatigue, shuffled in and dropped onto a cushion far from Desdemona Cork. Urged by Auld Nancy, Grayling, who still stood at the entry, related the story of their capture and escape. Pansy interrupted, saying, “Auld Nancy thinks Grayling was brave and a great help to us, which I could have been also, if I had wanted, but Grayling likes telling us what to do, so I let her do it.” She snuffled loudly as she removed her boots and wiggled her dirty, blistered feet.

They all turned to look at Grayling. She blinked. Pansy had nearly gotten herself and Grayling drowned. Twice. Pansy whined and grumbled and complained at every turn. And she thought she could be brave and helpful? Grayling gritted her teeth. She had not wanted to lead, but who else was there?

“That is all over, and we have survived. Now I believe we must hurry away before we are discovered,” she said, reluctantly, because of the warmth, the soft cushions, the aroma of the roast meat . . . and the still-missing Pook.

Auld Nancy, her face weariful and wan, said, “Desdemona Cork, be useful. Use your wiles to delay our pursuers for a time. Long enough for us to eat and to rest.”

Desdemona Cork looked confused, as if the idea of being useful confounded her, but she nodded slowly. “You will be safe here until dawn. I can make it so.” So Grayling, too, sat, choosing a cushion the green of the fiddlehead ferns in her valley.

Suddenly from outside the pavilion came the sounds of men shouting, the clanging of weapons, and the snorting of horses. The soldiers! Grayling jumped to her feet, her hunger gone.

Desdemona Cork stepped outside, and Grayling could smell roses. She moved closer to the entry and heard snatches of conversation. Have you seen . . . and Whither the witches . . . and South. Due south, in a coach with four horses running fast.

At a sudden shrieking, Grayling pulled back the silks and peered out. One of the soldiers was thrashing about, shouting and tugging at his clothes. Was he in the midst of a fit? Possessed of a demon? Out from a sleeve fell not a demon but a toad, brown and warty. Desdemona Cork squealed as it crawled over her foot and into the tent.

“Gray Eyes, this mouse has found you,” said the toad to Grayling.

Grayling’s chest swelled with joy. “Pook? ’Tis really you?” Although she much preferred Pook as a mouse or a raven or even a goat, she lifted Pook the toad and patted him gently on his bumpy back. “You are truly a remarkable creature to have found me,” she said.

“I could not have walked such a far way, so this soldier carried me,” said Pook the toad, “though he was unaware of his assistance.”

“By my reckoning, you have now saved me twice,” Grayling said, bowing her head. “My most grateful thanks to you and your mouse accomplices.”

“Nay, the mice did what mice do: chew. ’Twas great fun for a mouse.” Pook quivered, and Grayling, disinclined to put a toad in her pocket, held him gingerly on her palm.

After a few moments of shawl twitching and veil fluttering by Desdemona Cork, the soldiers, bowing and scraping, left, heading south as she had instructed them. The man in the high-heeled black leather boots still stood unmoving and unaware. Grayling gestured questioningly toward him.

“I grew tired of his attentions,” said Desdemona Cork with a shrug.

Inside the pavilion, Desdemona Cork handed something to Grayling. It was her basket, left behind when the three were captured. She put Pook inside, where, in true toad fashion, he hid himself beneath the few remaining herbs, now limp and brown but welcome cover for a toad.