Grayling's Song(26)

You cannot just sit here,

Dreaming and hoping.

March forward to battle

With pennants unfurled.

I call on your courage,

No fretting or moping.

Stand tall.

Stand tall.



If we stand alone,

It still must be done.

If it must be done,

You are the one.





“And you, and you, and you,” she sang, gesturing to each of her companions. And me, Grayling thought, with a shudder. And me.

The words of the song settled softly on their hearts like snowflakes, and they were cheered. “Enough fussing and dawdling,” said Auld Nancy, clapping her hands. “I shall attack this creature with thunder and lightning and send him scuttling in fear like a lamb fleeing a wolf!” She stood, smoothed her skirts and her wimple, and turned back the way they had come. “If I do not set myself afire first.”

The others stumbled behind her, down the road, over the blackened ground, and through the charred and shriveled trees. They approached the clearing with steps that grew slower and slower.

While the others took cover behind a tree, Auld Nancy stepped forward. “Hie, snake,” she shouted in a shaky voice. She cleared her throat and began again. “Hie, are you here? Show yourself!” There was no response, and she turned with a shrug to the others.

And then, with a cracking of branches and crunching of bushes, the snake slipped into the clearing. Grayling vowed she could hear a heart pounding wildly in every chest, even the serpent’s.

The great snake opened its mouth, hissed and howled, and spit flames. Grayling heard the whoosh of the flames, the crackle of branches afire, and the cronk of a raven, as Pook—she thought it must be Pook—tore through the blazing branches and soared into the sky, his tail feathers aflame.

Auld Nancy backed up a few steps, lifted her broom, and began to chant:



O spirits of the storm,

Let fire meet earth.

Let a storm spring forth

And shafts of fire come down

To assault our enemy and strike him low.

So might it be.





She muttered and murmured, swaying with her eyes closed and broom pointing to the sky.



May my power bring lightning,

May my anger bring thunder.

Open, skies, and rend clouds asunder!





Suddenly the sky turned dark and thunder cracked. Lightning split the air and splintered trees, bringing branches crashing to the ground. Sparks flared and sizzled, scorching Sylvanus’s gown and Pansy’s hair. Flashes of lightning lit the clearing; thunder rumbled and roared.

Grayling had pulled her cloak over her head and did not peek out until the commotion had ended. She was grieved to see the snake still there, massive and scaly and untouched by Auld Nancy’s lightning. It coiled its quivering body, switched its tail, and let loose a ghastly hiss.

The company fled back into the woods. At a safe distance, Auld Nancy, face red and hands atremble, dropped to the ground. “I cannot direct the lightning truly enough to strike the beast, and I know nothing more to do.”

Grayling felt her face sag like an empty feed sack. She turned to Desdemona Cork, but the enchantress shook her head. “I have had no practice enchanting monstrous serpents, nor do I wish to learn. I say we go elsewhere.”

“Sylvanus,” said Auld Nancy, with Pansy hiding behind her skirts, “I challenged the creature, and, though scorched, I still stand. Might you not try?”

Sylvanus’s face paled with fear, but Grayling took his hand and squeezed gently. Pulling his cloak tightly about him, he moved again toward the clearing, the others trailing far behind. He narrowed his eyes and glowered at the creature, which blew fire. Grayling near choked in the ash-and-cinder-filled air.

Sylvanus hastened back toward the trees where the others waited. “’Tis well known,” he said, “that a true magician casts spells and curses at a distance. Preferably a great, great distance.”

He said ahh and hmm several times, scratched his nose, and rubbed his beard. He peeked from behind a tree and stared at the serpent for long moments. He muttered and swayed, cleared his throat, and hummed. He lifted a pine branch still smoldering and shook it in the beast’s direction. “Foul creature from the depths of the earth, beast of fire and doom, may you vanish, retreat, exist no more,” he intoned.

Grayling peered around Sylvanus. The snake was still there.

With another shake of the fiery branch, Sylvanus called, “May you become as small as a drop of rain, a grain of sand, a hummingbird’s eye, the elbow of a flea. May you become so small you become nothing at all, and trouble us no more.”

The snake still was there. Its serpentine body quivered and sparks flew from its mouth.

Sylvanus rubbed his nose and rumpled his hair. “That was my finest dematerializing spell. Defeating monsters is not my expertise, I fear. I can do no more.”

His magic was as useless as Auld Nancy’s. Grayling’s belly clenched like a fist. Had the serpent defeated them? Was their journey over? No, she told herself. No!

Grayling studied the snake carefully. “Sylvanus, look. ’Tis odd, but the creature has changed some.” She went a little closer. “I can almost see through it, as if it were made of a fine, thin cloth with something moving behind, a shape here, a shadow there.”