Grayling's Song(21)

As they left, Grayling turned to take a last look at the flowers Sylvanus had conjured. The bush was black and blighted, the lovely blooms shriveled. “Magic always has a price,” said Auld Nancy.

Grayling turned away, took a deep breath, and once more sang to her grimoire. The grimoire sang back. “Hurry. This way,” she said to her companions, and they followed her, heading away from the sunrise—west, the grimoire sang them ever west.

Their steps grew slower as the morning wore on, and now and then one of them stopped to rub one sore body part or another. Every sound made Grayling startle and look around, but other travelers were few and none seemed apt to threaten them.

By late morning, the sun had dried her cloak a bit, but the sun beat fiercely on the back of her neck. She envied Auld Nancy the protection of her wimple. Finally she unloosed her braid and let her hair hang down her back to cover and cool her.

On and on they walked, on and on. The morning turned to bright afternoon, and the sun shone in Grayling’s face. She had no hair there to let down. Maybe she could grow her eyebrows long enough to cover her. She snorted at the image and slowed down to walk next to Auld Nancy. “You can command the rain,” she said to the old woman. “Can you then make clouds to cover the sun? My face is sizzling like a sausage in a fry pan.”

Auld Nancy shook her head. “Belike any magic will call attention to us.”

Grayling thought of the warlord. She nodded. But without using her magic, Auld Nancy had no more power than Grayling.

After a time, Auld Nancy and Sylvanus lagged behind, each with a hand on the mule for support, and Grayling found herself walking beside Desdemona Cork. She sniffed deeply of the scent of roses. “I have been wondering,” she said to the lovely woman. “How is it to have people admire you and obey you and seek to satisfy your every wish?”

Desdemona Cork pushed her cloud of hair back from her face. “’Tis useful at times, and often amusing, but very wearying. And when the enchantment wears off, folks are confused, and I am abandoned.” She sighed a sigh that sounded like a spring breeze ruffling the meadow grass. “If I could choose, I would live in a cottage by the sea, make fresh bread, spin in the sunshine, and live on goat cheese and apples.” She sighed again. “Alone. Blessedly alone and untroubled by the wishes of others.”

“Could you not choose to live so now?” asked Grayling.

Desdemona Cork smiled, and a faint rose color tinged her cheeks. “I suppose I could. A cottage by the sea . . .” She fell into a thoughtful silence.

In such circumstances, Grayling wondered, would I choose the cottage over such magic as Desdemona Cork’s? The word cottage awakened memories of rain on the roof thatch, the comforting whisper of her mother’s spinning wheel, and mugs of warm cabbage soup. Soup. Her belly rumbled. Desdemona Cork’s roast meat seemed so long ago. When might they eat again? And what? Would they be reduced to catching and cooking weasels and badgers?

“I have gone my limit,” Auld Nancy said at last, while the sun still shone in the sky, “and can walk no more now, not with these old bones.” She sat on a stump and rubbed her knees, and Sylvanus dropped down beside her. Pansy slid off the mule’s back and stretched. Grayling could not say who looked the more weary.

She put her basket down, and Pook the toad crawled out. He flipped his pink tongue at a passing insect, snatched it right out of the air, and gulped it down. Then with a shudder, he became Pook the mouse again. “This mouse is grateful for this new shifting,” he said, “for he feels much disgust at the eating of bugs.” He spat a tiny spit before clambering up Grayling’s skirts and into her pocket. Grayling peered into the basket with its cargo of blackened herbs, bits of broken jars, and toad droppings. With a homesick sigh, she dropped it at the side of the road.

She turned to Auld Nancy and, at the sight of her drooping there, frowned with concern. Auld Nancy had been less peevish of late, Grayling realized, and less bossy, as if she did not have the strength. Pain marked the old woman’s face as she rubbed her neck and her knees.

Grayling bent down to Sylvanus. “Is there aught you can do to relieve Auld Nancy?”

The magician shook his head.

“Not spell? Charm? Incantation?” Grayling grew increasingly frustrated with him. “Not draught? Elixir? Brew? Anything?”

Sylvanus waved her away. “I choose not to deplete my skills by using them on petty complaints.”

Grayling scowled at his selfishness and dropped down next to Auld Nancy. “I have heard my mother sing a song,” she said to the old woman, “that might help with your pains.” She began to chant, slowly and softly:



Aches from cold,

Aches from old,

Aches, go away.

Rub rocks and stones,

And not old bones.

Aches, go away.

Let Nancy rest,

Not feel so old.

Aches, go away.





After a few moments, Auld Nancy stretched her limbs and smiled. “I believe that did help some. Almost like magic. Gramercy, Grayling.”

“You would do better to thank Hannah Strong, for it be her song.”

“Aye,” Auld Nancy said, “but ’twas your voice and your goodwill.”

When they were ready for the road once more, Sylvanus helped Auld Nancy onto the mule. Pansy, of course, sulked. Grayling reflected that Pansy was irritating, annoying, and a hindrance on this journey. Why hadn’t Auld Nancy sent her back to her mother? Her mother was a reader of palms. Perhaps she had a grimoire and enough magic to be rooted, too? Was that why Pansy was here?