Grayling's Song(23)

“How much longer must we trudge this road?” asked Desdemona Cork. “I wish to be quit of the journey.”

Grayling sang a snatch of song and cocked her head to listen. “The grimoire is near,” she said. “Mayhap we will reach it next day or the next.”

Auld Nancy scowled. “I fear this be too easily done—”

“Easy? You think this easy?” Grayling’s cheeks blazed. “I have left my mother rooted to the ground, trekked through woods and swamps, been threatened and menaced and imprisoned, suffered blisters, frights, and empty belly. I do not in any way think this easy!”

“Hist, girl. I did not mean ’twas not difficult, for all of us, but I wonder why some power would take the grimoires and then let us find them.”

“Easy?” Grayling muttered as she plowed on. “She says ‘easy’?”

The day was darkening when they stopped again, feet sore and bellies empty. Pansy huddled beneath a tree, her face gray with weariness, and Auld Nancy dropped down beside her.

Trees stood black against the sky, and all was silent but for the hoots of owls and shrieks of birds for which Grayling had no name. The very air seemed dark and heavy. Though reluctant to be alone among the trees, Grayling went to gather wood for a fire.

A bit of a brook, muddy and stagnant, seeped from ground rutted and tunneled by moles and voles. She glimpsed foxes and furry creatures she hoped were not wolves darting between the trees. Every rustle of leaf or crack of twig underfoot made her jump. Branches reached for her like fingers groping, poking, scratching. Had some of these trees been folks, were perhaps still folks deep in their woody hearts? At last, her arms full of branches and twigs, she hurried back to the others.

Sylvanus was sitting with his back against the rough bark of a sweet chestnut tree, his eyes closed, his shoulders festooned with autumn leaves. Pansy was whispering to Auld Nancy and Desdemona Cork, and they looked up at Grayling.

Pansy motioned to her. Grayling dropped the wood and joined the others. “We are wondering over Sylvanus,” Pansy said.

“Why has he not turned tree,” asked Auld Nancy, “or even seen the damage? He heard rumors, he said. What has he been busy doing?”

“Was it something with smoke and shadow?” Desdemona Cork asked in a whisper.

Pansy cleared her throat and said, “I have a worrisome uneasiness about what he carries in his saddlebags. Belike we should examine them.”

The four turned and studied Sylvanus. His eyes were still closed, and he whistled, puffed, and snorted, every breath ruffling his beard. He did not look so very sly or treacherous to Grayling, but then she had little knowledge of treachery.

“Sylvanus,” said Auld Nancy, kicking his foot. “Wake, Sylvanus. We would speak with you.”

Sylvanus stretched and shook his head. “I was not asleep but merely thinking about the problems of the universe. Very difficult work it is, thinking deep thoughts, and ‘the mind cannot grapple when the body is weary.’’’

Auld Nancy kicked his foot again. “Fie, you old braggart. Stop your thinking for a moment. We would see what you carry in those saddlebags.”

“Ah, woe, what is it that causes you to distrust me? I have always done my best.” He snuffled. “But ’tis true, ‘no man is a hero to those who wash his socks,’ as the eminent professor Isidore Muchnick once told me.”

“Enough!” cried Auld Nancy. “Enough! You ever grizzle and yawl! I swear someone has put a babbling spell on you. Pansy, fetch the bags. We shall see for ourselves if he has been about mischief.”

Pansy lifted the saddlebags and shook them. Out fell a blue velvet cap and cape, copper coins, a clean shirt, two metal cups with strange engravings, bottles of various green and slimy things, brown bread, two onions, and a ham.

“Ham!” Auld Nancy shouted. “Ham! You did not tell us you had food! Let us forget this discord for a moment and eat.”

Pansy grinned a sly, satisfied grin. She had known about the ham in Sylvanus’s bags, Grayling was certain of it. But how?

Sylvanus stood. “Are you convinced I carry nothing suspicious in my bags? Leave me now to soothe my stomach and my nerves and put my bodily humors back in balance.” He grabbed his velvet cap from Pansy. “And cease pawing my things, you great, useless lump of a girl!”

Pansy’s grin faded, replaced by her usual sullen pout.

After Sylvanus stowed his things back in his saddlebags, Auld Nancy said, “I will slice ham. Sylvanus, start us a fire.”

Grayling watched him with interest. The man was a magician. Would he snap his fingers to start the fire? Or gesture? Point? Clap his hands?

Sylvanus pulled a tinderbox from a pocket of his dust-colored gown. He saw Grayling’s disappointed face and shrugged.

“What would suit that ham, Sylvanus,” said Desdemona Cork, and the scent of almond blossoms filled the air, “is a bit of that cheese hanging around your neck.”

Sylvanus threw an arm protectively across his chest and shook his head. “’Tis not cheese for eating. It has a purpose.”

“Beyond filling our bellies, I take it,” said Auld Nancy.

A nearby shrub offered late sweet whortleberries, and with the ham and an onion from Sylvanus’s saddlebags, they had a fine supper even without the cheese. Grayling dropped a bit of berry into her pocket for Pook, but the mouse said, “Nay, I fear my belly still suffers from the toad’s dinners.” With a burp, he snuggled deeper.