Grayling's Song(38)

Pook had turned aside for a fit of cleaning and paid no attention to her, continuing to groom his paws. He looked different . . . quite mouselike. Grayling bit her lip and looked away. This mouse was a mouse now and Pook no longer.

She wrapped her cloak about her, took her bundle, and set off alone into the morning mist.





XVII





he road ran ever on, through hills and fields, meadows and valleys, past towns and villages. After two weary days and frosty nights, Grayling woke with empty belly but full heart. Today she would be home.

The sun was rising as she climbed up the hill she had once walked down. Here and there she could hear the jabbering song of a starling, although bare-branched oaks, alders, and maples warned, “Autumn is waning. Make ready for winter.” She made a song to sing along:



Seasons change, winter’s nigh.

Leaves change color, fall, and die.

Seasons change, wet and dry.

Even wise folk wonder why

Everything changes by and by.





Humming, she reached the rise where she had slept that first night and thought once more of Pook, safe and warm and well fed with Auld Nancy. Grayling patted the pocket where she had carried him to the sea and back. “Never,” she whispered, as though he could hear her, “never did I think I would miss having a mouse in my pocket. Or a goat by my side. But I do.”

Still, down from this hill was her mother—her mother whole and out of danger, she hoped, or her mother growing into the ground, or her mother a tree now, but still her mother. Grayling’s heart thumped in anticipation as she headed into the valley.

She peered through the trees, trying to catch sight of the cottage or at least what part of it survived the fire. Faint remains of the smoke scented the air, and Grayling imagined the ruins would be like broken teeth upon the ground. But as she grew nigh, she felt dizzy with joy and relief. There was the cottage, much as it had been—small, to be sure, but solid and sturdy, roofed with freshly laid thatch. The walls were repaired with oak timbers and patched with woven-stick wattle under daub of mud, dung, and straw.

And there was her mother—no roots, no branches, no leaves—her mother, Hannah Strong! Grayling smiled so wide it hurt her face, and she half stumbled, half danced down the path, her hair flying and her cheeks burning. “Hannah Strong!” she shouted. “Mother, I am home!”

The woman turned. Her daub-spattered kirtle hung loosely, and the hair peeping out from beneath her kerchief was gray. Had her mother changed so much in this past fortnight, or had Grayling not noticed her aging? But grizzled or not, the woman was not a tree, and her legs ended not in roots but in wide, strong feet.

“Well met, daughter,” said Hannah Strong, thrusting a handful of sticky daub at Grayling. “Take some of this and help me. I wish to have solid walls before the snows come.”

Grayling put her hands out without thinking and accepted the heavy, soggy heap.

“Where is the grimoire?” asked Hannah Strong.

“’Tis part of my story. Shall I tell it? Do you wish to know what I found and what I did and how it is you are no longer rooted to the ground?”

Hannah Strong waved her muddy hand. “Pish. There are mysteries aplenty in this world, and I have not the time to question them all.”

“But it was my doing, and—”

Hannah Strong pushed Grayling toward the cottage wall. “Tell me when daylight has faded. Go and be useful.”

Now she was home and faced with Hannah Strong, Grayling felt childish and insignificant again, as if the past weeks had not happened at all. But they had, and she had much to tell. “I expect my story can keep,” she said as she spread the daub upon the wall, “but do say how the cottage has been made whole again. It can be only a short time since the spell was broken and you were freed.”

“The Tailor twins wanted my remedy for wind in the bowels, and the price was repair to the cottage frame. Goodwife Stock needed a love potion, so she helped me weave the wattle. And you can see what Thomas Thatcher paid for relief for his griping gut,” said Hannah Strong, gesturing toward the roof. She slapped another handful of daub on the side of the cottage and spread it thickly. “We must finish the plastering soon, for there are salves and potions to be mixed, brewed, and bottled.”

Grayling stopped, daub dripping from her hands down her skirt. “Indeed. Your salves and potions were lost or gone with me. What, then, did you give to Goodwife Stock and the others?”

“I made do,” said Hannah Strong. “I had herbs and spells and fresh water, ashes and berries and songs. And I am quite adept at persuasion.”

Grayling smiled. Her mother’s magic was indeed like a sausage.

Day darkened to chilly evening as they daubed the cottage walls.

Finally they cleaned their hands and took shelter in the unfinished cottage. The room was smaller than Grayling remembered, empty and cold and lacking the chairs and tables and shelves of supplies that had made it home.

She built a small fire with bits of charred wood and tinder and warmed her backside. Hannah Strong unwrapped a parcel of cheese and brown bread and a jug of sour ale. Grayling raised an eyebrow in query. “Simon Strand the innkeeper,” said Hannah Strong, “wished a tonic to sweeten his mother-in-law’s disposition.”

Grayling sat and nestled close to the hearth.