Wynter's Thief, page 6
As if he knows how vital his answer is to me, he thinks a goodly while before he answers. We are walking on a narrow path, smooth but winding, perhaps the way of badgers or foxes. He still holds me close to prevent my falling; he is so tall my head fits into the hollow of his shoulder, under his arm.
At last he says, “I don’t understand your power, Wynter. But I believe it’s a good magic, for taking away pain is surely an act of charity. And divining for water gives people hope, and life to their animals and crops. In church they say Christ’s first miracle was to do with water, turning it into wine. And we are baptised in water. There is nothing in the holy teachings that says water is an evil thing. I think your gift is from God.”
He speaks the words quietly, and yet they ring like church bells in my heart. How much they mean to me! Restored, I go from death to life, from wrong to right, within the sanction of his words. Gratitude overwhelms me, and I press my head against his shoulder, unable to speak for tears.
“I hope you didn’t believe that fool of a priest,” Fox says. “He sniffs demons out of thin air. If a cake burns, he says the devil breathed on it. If he spies a crow on a fence, he says ’tis a demon watching us. If Christ Himself went into Nettle Hill and turned water into wine, the priest would give Him a right good telling-off, and doubtless have Him whipped for sorcery.”
I laugh, even though his words disturb me, too. “’Tis bad to say such things of a priest,” I chide. “They are above us all, and can forgive sins and send us to heaven, or curse us into hell.”
“That is a mighty power you give them, Wynter, considering they are human like the rest of us, and sin just as eagerly – more so, some of them, because they can forgive themselves while they’re doing it. I trust none of them.”
“You have a strange way of seeing things, Fox.”
“Aye, well, ’tis my right. It was a priest who held me down while another burned this brand into my face. They both were guilty of wrongful judgement. It coloured my opinion of their kind somewhat. But if my opinions trouble you, I’ll not trot them out again.”
“They are troubling,” I say, “but freeing, too.”
“I’m all for freedom,” he says. “Freedom from stupid laws, from prejudice, from injustice. Freedom from hunger, cold, violence, homelessness, hatred, malice, hostility and thirst. Shall I go on?”
“I think I get your meaning,” I say, smiling.
He adds, “’Tis a pity that such freedoms don’t exist. Nor ever will.”
“They may one day,” I say, and he makes a sound like a laugh, bitter and hard.
We journey on in silence. Rested, and comfortable in the boots, I walk more quickly and can see a little now. Dawn bleaches the blackest shades to grey, and birds twitter above our heads. In the distance the hounds bark again, and we hear shouts. They are off to our right, coming nearer. Fox takes my hand, swears softly. As the sounds comes closer, we start to run through the undergrowth. The barking becomes ferocious, seems to be all around. The dawn air quivers and sparks. In a small clearing we stop, Fox’s hand so tight about mine that his fingers hurt.
Suddenly two hounds burst through the undergrowth in front of us and halt in the clearing not a stone’s throw ahead. They are huge, powerful, part wolf, part bloodhound, bred for bear-baiting and bringing down wild boar. They crouch, growling, lips drawn back, fangs slavering. Redness flares about them, and they stink of savagery and bloodlust. We cannot run; the hounds are too close; one leap and they will be on us. There is nothing on the ground, not a stone or stick we can use for a weapon. It is too late to climb a tree. If we move they will attack and kill us; it is what they are trained to do. A memory flits across my mind: bloodhounds like these at a bear-baiting, tearing the animal apart while it still lived. At the same moment I see two more dogs to our right, one to our left. Slinking low, they approach, their growls guttural and deep. And something in that sound speaks to me, puts me in mind of the submerged booming of the earth, of waters rushing beneath distant rock; puts me in mind of my power.
Very slowly I move towards the two nearest bloodhounds. They do not spring, but watch, snarling, crouched for attack. They are but a few paces away. In the distance, men shout, nearer now. Behind me Fox sobs, says the name of Jesus over and over.
“Kneel down, Fox,” I say, very low. “Do as I do.”
He whimpers something back, and I hear him moving.
I kneel in the dust, my head bent. To shut out fear, I close my eyes. One of the hounds approaches me, and I sense it is female. Her breath rolls over me in hot waves, her growls so low they vibrate in my chest, become part of the vast earth, part of the pounding of my own heart. And in my heart I speak to her, in that same deep place, beyond human words, beyond fear. In a way I can hardly explain, I forget myself, become ally to the she-hound’s wildness, seek out her creature heart. It is like divining for water, feeling for another force, listening for a different music, and finding it. And in the finding there is harmony.
The she-hound whimpers like a dog when it is keen to play, and puts her paw upon my shoulder. The power of it, gentle though it is, knocks me over. There is quietness about us now; the other hounds have ceased their growling. Curling on my side in the dust, I stay motionless. My left hand is flung out, palm upwards, and she sniffs it, licks it. She sniffs my face and neck, then backs away. A few heartbeats I wait then lift my head. They are all gone, vanished among the sunbeams streaming through the trees. Far in the distance men call out, and the barking of the hounds recedes. The woods are aflame with the new day.
I sit up near Fox. Slowly he raises himself, looks at me strangely. His feelings are difficult to divine. He says, with a crooked smile, “I’m glad I decided you’re no witch, else I might be tempted to flee with the hounds. Tell me, how did you send them off?”
“The same way I find waters in the earth. By being still within, and seeking out a way to commune without words. To sing the song of something else. It is a hard thing to tell of.”
“I think you tell it very well,” he says, standing up.
Taking my hand, he pulls me up beside him.
His eyes are full of things he does not say, things I don’t know how to read, and I look away and bend over to brush the dirt from my dress. My feelings are jumbled, fragile, as they sometimes are after divining. There is a force in Fox, an energy different from mine, and I am wary of it.
When I stand straight again we are very close. Gently he pushes the tangled hair from my face, and with the backs of his fingers wipes the she-hound’s saliva from my cheek. Disquieted, I lift my hand and wrap my fingers about his wrist, stilling him, and we stand like that for long heartbeats, saying nothing. His eyes are very dark, widely spaced, and tilting slightly upwards in the outer corners. They say much again, his eyes, and I am a little fearful, for never before have I been alone and close with a youth, and I do not know how to be, or what might be.
Then he moves my fingertips to his mouth and kisses them. “You are a saint,” he says.
I cannot help smiling as I withdraw my hand. “Well, that’s the best title I’ve ever had,” I say. “Doubtless the most absurd, but the best, all the same.”
We continue walking, following a narrow animal path out of the clearing. The sun glints through the treetops, the air is light as thistledown, and the day is yet blessedly cool. Fox walks at my side, not touching, and I almost have to run to keep up with his long-legged stride. Already I am weary again, although I struggle not to let him know it. I realise how little I have walked in my years locked in the wagon as my father’s property. I had been free only when let out to dowse for water or to eat at the table of a kind villager, when my father made a show of loving me. His form of love has made me feeble, my body burdensome. I admire Fox’s unbounded energy, his easy way of walking, as if the woods and all the wild ways are his home. In truth, he is like a fox, quick and graceful and quiet.
After a while he says, “Have you met hounds before, Wynter? Did you know you had that power with beasts?”
“I met a wolf once and calmed it, so it ran off without harming my father or me. But it is hard to do such things when I am afraid.”
“Such things? What else can you do, with creatures?”
“Sometimes, when we were travelling, my father set snares for rabbits, and I would whisper in the night to the rabbits to stay away. I did not mind fishing traps, for the fish they caught still lived unharmed, and my father killed them swift, with a single blow, when he got them out. But the snares for beasts are exceeding cruel. I saw a snare once with just the paw of a fox in it. The creature had gnawed off its own foot so it could escape. Its pain and fear must have been dire indeed.”
“And did they work, your whisperings?”
“I suppose so, for not once did my father snare any rabbits. He could never understand it. Mostly, though, we were given food in villages and towns, for we were welcomed and treated well, when my father said I was a water witch.”
“You have a soft heart,” Fox says, smiling, but there is no mockery in it.
“So have you,” I say, “for you got me out of my snare.”
“That I did. And got you into mine.”
“What is your snare?”
“You know. Having to live by thievery.” He trots a little way in front of me, then turns and bows deeply, doffing an imaginary hat, as if I were a fine lady and he a lord. “I am Fox, sweet lady,” he says, solemn as you please. “Vagrant, outlaw, felon and thief. At your personal service. Name anything you need, and I shall procure it.”
I cannot help smiling. “Maybe not by theft, Fox. We could find work. I could work as a dairy maid, or on a farm feeding chickens or milking cows. You could be a farm labourer.”
“Sounds like a fine partnership,” he says, walking beside me again. “You feed the chickens, fatten them up, then I can steal them.”
“Fox!”
He laughs and bumps me with his arm, friendly-like, catching me off balance and almost knocking me over. I do the same to him, and he staggers and tumbles headlong into the ferns, rolling about and howling as if I have dealt him a mortal blow. I walk on, ignoring his foolery, and hear him gasping and wheezing as he stumbles after me. When I turn to look at him, he is bent over like a doddering greybeard, hobbling and frail.
I begin to laugh, and cannot stop. He laughs too, and we walk through the morning, easy in each other’s company as if we have long been friends. And I realise a marvellous thing: in more years than I can remember, this is the first time I have laughed.
• • •
We find a cottage half hidden under trees on the top of a hill. We come to it through a track leading off an ancient forest road. It is timber framed, with walls made of willow sticks woven tight and plastered with mud and straw. In parts the walls are fallen to decay, pierced by jagged holes. The ground round about is thick with brambles and ferns, and a tree grows so close a branch has clawed its way in through the only window. The steep thatched roof is heavily blanketed with leaves and moss, and continues far down over the outside walls, making wide, low eaves. A fern sprouts out of the debris on the roof, like a jaunty feather in a hat. There is no smoke, no sign of human life.
Fox is wary, but I limp through the undergrowth to the front door, which hangs on one remaining hinge made of leather nailed into the wood. Bending my head under the low eaves, I push the door open and go in.
The peaked roof is very high, its lower crossbeams hung with cobwebs and rotting herbs. The air is damp and suffocating, and there is a stink of rancid fat, or tallow. A fire pit in the floor is lined with stones and smells of old ash. As with most houses I enter, I sense what has been here in the past, and in this place it was not happiness; ragged remains of fear still linger. Yet despite these phantoms I am glad of the shelter, for my feet are sore, even though I still wear Fox’s boots, and I am weary to the marrow. I am not used to travelling on foot, and Fox and I have been walking for three days now.
“This will be a good place to rest,” I say.
Fox has followed me in, and I turn to look at him. His whole being shakes with fear, and he puts up a hand and holds one of the low beams to steady himself. Breathing deeply, he says to me, “I don’t like this place, Wynter. There’s evil here.”
“There are shadows from the past, that is all,” I say.
He shoots me a cautious look. “So you feel it, too?”
“Of course. I feel something in every house I enter, Fox. I can always see the vapours of anger or fear, and know if someone of the house once suffered misfortune or woe. Every home has such shades. This is no worse than most.”
“Then give me a cave in the forest, anytime,” he says, turning to go.
“We need to stay here,” I say. “There is no danger now, Fox. Nothing to worry on. No humans have been in here for many summers. We need a place to shelter, for a few nights at least. I’m weary. I’m not like you, used to travelling on foot, mile after mile, day after day. I’ve always been on the wagon. I’m tired of sleeping under hedges or in hollowed banks. I’m tired of walking, of feeling hunted. I want to rest, to have a roof over my head, to eat hot meat and sleep without listening for danger.”
Sighing deeply, he leans in the doorway, looking out. “You swear this place holds no harm now?”
“I swear it,” I say.
He turns his head and gives me a long, hard look. “Well, if you’re content to stay here,” he says, “I’ll not argue. However, I can’t say I’m thrilled to the bones about it.”
It is then that I see, deep in the blood-darkness of him, wraithlike images of the place where we stand. “Have you been here before, Fox?” I ask. “Perhaps in a time long past, when you were a child?”
He shakes his head, though he is much disturbed.
I say, with gentleness, “You have dreams about a place like this. A place that smells of tallow. Dreams of being trapped, of grief and fear. Are you sure you have not been here before?”
Frowning, breathing hard, he digs in his memories. Then he says, “Never! I’ve never been in this shire, so far as I remember. Meredith and I lived at first in a town called Bryn, and I’ve wandered far from that place, over the years. Truth to tell, I don’t know where in this wide land I’ve been. Some villages I’ve been to twice, but never stayed long the second time, on account of people remembering me. Maybe I was in this shire with Meredith when I was very young, but I don’t remember it. Though I confess this place does spook me mightily.” I say nothing, still seeing the shadows within him that are like ghosts.
“And sometimes you spook me, Wynter,” he adds, nervously, “when you wander about in my head. I’d like to keep my dreams to myself, if you don’t mind.”
I smile, and he smiles back, a sudden mischief leaping in his eyes. “Besides,” he adds, “I might have dreams of you, and that would not bode well; you’d give me a right good bashing for them.”
We both laugh, and he goes out and begins to gather firewood.
When he is gone, the shadows in the cottage feel lighter, less menacing, and I realise, with a shock, that most of the fear I divined came from Fox himself, despite his words. I wonder who he really is and how, as a child, he became lost. There is a mystery about him, a life’s beginning vanished in shadows, that intrigues me. Truth to tell, all of him intrigues me, raises feelings and emotions in me I have not had before.
It is a wonderment to me, having a friend. Yet it is a worry, too, for I have not been close to anyone before, except my family, and in the past eleven summers close only to my father; I do not know which of the things I sense and see are natural to everyone, or peculiar to myself. I do not know where my powers start and end. I remember my father’s warnings not to speak of my dwimmer-craft lest it be misunderstood and taken for witchery. With my father I was safe, for if I spoke of unnatural things he simply told me to keep silent. But now, with Fox, I do not know what I ought to say, and what I ought to keep to myself. With Fox I feel unsure, lost.
Lost, and found.
Narrative 5: Fox
When I get back to the cottage, I find Wynter busy with a broom made of a thin branch with a bunch of leaves at one end. As I drop the firewood near the hearthstones, she stops and gives me one of her perceptive looks. The room is dark, but the daylight from the open door strikes one side of her face, one luminous eye, and the rough-woven folds of her grey dress. It is the colour of ash. I taste ash, something unpleasant and choking. I know that she knows, and I say, striving to sound cheerful, “I’ll get some bracken now, for our beds.”
“I suppose you have flints somewhere about you,” she says, “since you’ve got us wood aplenty for a fire.”
“I always carry flints,” I say. “And today there’s bread as well, and two apples, which I stole this morning, from the hamlet. I have a regular market down my shirt.”
She smiles, but her eyes are solemn. “Well then, since we can cook, we’ll set traps for fish in that little brook we drank from. We can live well here, Fox. The roof looks good, and we can stuff mud in the holes in the walls. If this was a woodsman’s hut, there must be a town nearby. We could look there for work.”
“You’re planning on staying here awhile, then,” I say, with a surge of annoyance, for I am not used to being told what to do.
“It will be good for a time, not to be on the run,” she says.
“Good for you, or for me?” I cannot help myself; the anger boils over, and I welcome it, for it smothers my ghostly fears. “I am not used to living within walls, Wynter. When I rescued you I did not think …”
