Grayling's Song(39)

“Tell me now,” Hannah Strong said as they ate.

So Grayling began with the mouse who ate the potions and singing in the towns and the woman with the wart. “And can you guess,” she asked, “who heard me singing and came to me?”

But her mother was asleep.

It rained that night, but the roof was tight and the walls nearly so, so Grayling was dry and almost warm. She thought of Auld Nancy, who could stop this rain—if she wished, if she was rested and her belly was full. Grayling was struck with a sudden yearning to see her, which she held close until she, too, slept.

She dreamed of hissing serpents and woke with a start, but the sound proved only the hissing of the damp wood in the fire. She was home. She turned with a huff and slept again, dreamless.

In the morning, as they finished the remains of the cheese, Hannah Strong said, “The brown clay pot there is some cracked from the heat of the fire but likely will serve. Go and gather bilberries and thistle, bayberry bark and the roots of what yellow dock is still in the garden, and we will brew healing tonics. Certes there will soon be problems that cannot be eased with chanting, mint, and persuasion.” She added more wood to the fire and blew it into greater flame.

Grayling wrapped her cloak around her, took the brown clay pot, and went outside. The rain had stopped. She searched through the shriveled herbs outside for what was yet alive and useful. Then she sat, resting her weary body and her blistered feet, and fell asleep there in the garden. That day and the next passed, filled with some labor, a bit of food, and welcome sleep.

Grayling felt strangely restless and dissatisfied. Something was missing, something Grayling needed to feel safe and content as she used to. The valley she had longed for seemed somehow empty and forlorn. What was happening in the world outside? Was the metal-nosed warlord still brewing disorder? Was Pansy trying out more selfish magic?

The third morning, she woke early and left the cottage, weary of the smell of charred wood and fresh daub. It was too cold for bird song, but she heard water gurgling through the small round rocks in the pond, and she began humming along.

For a moment she imagined she heard the grimoire singing, and she stopped cold. For many days, she had sung to it and heard it sing back, but lately she and the grimoire had been silent. She missed the song, the tug and the promise, the satisfaction of having something important to do. And others to do it with.

Taking a deep breath and hoping, Grayling began to sing. And as faint as the whoosh of a butterfly’s wings, she heard the grimoire’s song. Wherever Phinaeus Moon and the book were, no water lay between them and Grayling. She sang again for the pleasure of hearing the grimoire, sea-soaked and far away, sing back.

While Hannah Strong smoothed another coat of daub on the cottage walls, Grayling searched for what was available and edible. She gathered rosehips and ripe plums and dug for wild garlic. There were withered pears on a tree and shriveled blackberries. Once inside, Hannah Strong brought out the heel of bread. Such a supper reminded Grayling of meals on the road, and she remembered the lovely Desdemona Cork with the sun and moon inked on her face. What did she do now? And Auld Nancy, Sylvanus, and Phinaeus Moon? Did they think of her and sigh, as she did?

The music of raindrops on the cottage roof moved Grayling to make a song, but instead she fell into a tired sleep. That night she dreamed of flying goats and singing cheese and men with horses’ feet.

Next morning Grayling sought her mother, who was out gathering sticks and twigs for the fire. “Sit, Mother,” Grayling said, and her voice trembled. “You must listen. I have things to say, and it is time to say them.” She cleared her throat and began again. “Stop working, sit, and listen. I have seen much and lived much since I left you, and I was changed by my adventures.” She smiled with the remembering. “My story has a serpent, magicians, and soothsaying cheeses. I was brave at times, and I discovered many things I can do and know.”

Without protest, Hannah Strong wiped her hands clean on her kirtle and sat down on the firewood stack to listen. As Grayling told her story, she wondered again that she had had the courage to leave her home and face such dangers.

Hannah Strong nodded her head while Grayling spoke. “Aye,” she said when Grayling finished. “I have heard whispers and rumors that other cunning folk were rooted as I was and now have been freed, grimoires taken and now returned. And that was your doing?”

“I considered what I must do to free you, and I did it. I expect you are surprised to hear that.”

“Not a bit,” said Hannah Strong. “I never would have sent you if I had not known you could do it.”

“Truly?” Grayling felt her cheeks grow warm with pleasure and surprise. “You never told me that.”

“I did not think it needed telling. You did what must be done.”

“I did! I did!” But even as she said it, Grayling realized it was not true. They had done it, all of them together.

She pulled at a loose thread on her tattered skirt. Just as one thread is not as strong as woven cloth, she thought, a person striving with others can be stronger than she would be alone. She had never thought of that before. She was swept with longing for the others.

Hannah Strong slapped her knee and rose. “Enough. It was a good journey and a good story, and now we must hurry and make ready for winter. When rain and snow fall, I would have us be safe and content within.” She studied Grayling and said, “Wise women learn when they are ready, and I believe your journey has made you ready. I will share my spells with you and teach you more of my songs—everything the wise woman’s daughter needs to know.”