Grayling's Song(3)

The wise woman frowned at her daughter. “I can do nothing, go nowhere, rooted to the ground as I am. You will have my philters and potions, my charms and my songs, the wisdom of the others, and your own wits.”

Grayling shook her head no and no again. “Your philters and potions are burned and scrambled, the charms and songs are yours and not mine, I do not know of any others, and my wits? You have often called them weak and fragile things.”

“Although it appears your tongue works exceedingly well. Now hush and let us tackle the impediments one by one.” Grayling’s mother sighed. “How I wish I could sit down. My knees pain me with the standing.” Her eyes filled with dark sadness, and Grayling’s heart grew sore with sorrow and fear. “Bring me the witch hazel and comfrey ointment.”

Grayling gestured toward the ruins of the cottage. “Everything is tumbled and broken, spilled and charred and ruined. I don’t know what is what or for which.”

“Go and fetch what jars survive. We can know the contents by their smell.”

Grayling went back into the remains of the cottage. With her hazel stick, she poked through the debris again and lifted the pots that were most whole. She wrapped them in her skirt, carried them back to her mother, and laid them at the woman’s feet . . . roots . . . feet. One by one, the girl lifted the vessels and took a deep sniff of the contents. Some burned her nose, some comforted it, some made her belly turn over in distress, but they all smelled alike to Grayling—“Like smoke and loss,” she told her mother.

The comfrey ointment could not be found, but Hannah Strong could identify the rest. “The one with a faint scent of roses and lovage is the binding potion to compel faithfulness,” she said, and, “Achoo! That is sneezewort to repel insects.” She named them all. Grayling ripped pieces from her shift, covered each pot with a scrap, and tied it on with twine. Then, at her mother’s instruction, she marked its name with a piece of charred wood, for Hannah Strong thought a wise woman’s daughter should know the way of words. The pots went into Grayling’s basket: potions and salves and oils for protection, for sleeping and healing, for binding, shape shifting, and truth telling.

“With these you will not be defenseless. Now go,” her mother said. “You needn’t fight any demons or dragons. Just find the others, if others there still be.”

“Who or what are these others?”

Hannah Strong waved a hand about. “Hedge witches, hags, charmers and spellbinders, conjurers, wizards, and soothsayers. You do not think I am the only cunning woman in the world? We be solitary folk, but they will come when you call.”

Grayling backed away, shaking her head. “Such a task calls for a brave and skillful person, someone bold, with cunning and magic. Call on one like that.”

“Daughter, you say enough no for a town full of faint hearts,” said Hannah Strong. She would have stamped her foot in irritation if foot she’d had. “Would I had a spell to compel you, but I must rely on your care for me.” Hannah leaned over and rubbed her right knee. She was bark to her shins.

Grayling felt the rush of a familiar combination of overwhelming love for her mother, annoyance at her demands, and fear of her temper, her power, her determination. She paused to think. Belike she could find one of these others, one with magic and skill, who might know what to do and do it, and she could come home. It might be that simple.

“How would I find these others?”

“Go to the market square of a town, as many towns as there be, and sing.”

“Sing? Sing what?”

“There is a gathering song I will teach you. Sing this, and the others, if others there still be, will find you.” Hannah Strong, her knees brown and rough as bark, sang.



By wax and wick,

By seed and root,

Through storms of trouble,

We gather.



Strange matters appear:

Thunder and fog,

Dark and midnight hags,

Toads, beetles, bats

Surround us.



From town and country, hill and valley,

From mountain’s snowy crest,

From cellar, attic, church, and alley,

I call to you. I call to you.



Afore danger find us, shackles bind us,

And dreams go up in smoke.

Come to me, come to me,

All wise and cunning folk.



Come—

By wax and wick,

By seed and root,

Through storms of trouble,

We gather,

We gather.





Grayling brightened. “Have you now called them with the song? Will they come here and tell us what to do to free you?”

Hannah Strong shook her head. “It will be many miles and many singings before they will hear and respond. But they will, if any there be—there is power in the song. Now you sing.”

All unwilling, Grayling sang, stumbling over the unfamiliar words, again and again until she knew the song. Then her mother taught her a song to sing to the grimoire and how to listen for the grimoire singing back, provided that no water stood between them.

There were three kinds of songs, Grayling knew—a song with words and music, a song with melody and no words, and a song with no words and no melody that was instead a thrumming in the head and a throbbing in the heart. This last was what her mother taught her now, and Grayling heard it not with her ears but with her mind and her spirit. And she repeated it the same way.