Nor this: Nine Weaving. Eight are painted, bending to their wintry task. Ah, they blaze in their imprisoning. From their tower spills their endless web, the green world and that other, woven with a mingled skein.
And here's the Rattlebag, turned tail. It shows a lad, whiteheaded as a weed; he claps the crows that flacker from his field of corn, all rooted in a sleeping man, a sheaf whose binding is a belt of stars.
And turn, and he's the Hanged Lad, brave in winter, mid a winnowing of stars.
The Crowd of Bone. That fiddle that the old year plays of Ashes, of her bones. ‘Tis strung with shorn red hair. Ah, it burns thy fingers, thou dost let it fall.
And Ashes. Not her smutched and tangled guise, as black as holly-blotch, that waif in tattercoats that walks behind a wren's cold corse: that is not Ashes but her mute. This Ashes dances lightfoot, and at every step a green blade springs. Her hair's like fires that the May lads leap, a-whirl in wind. Far far behind her is an O, a crow's eye or a cracked bright glass. Her end. But for now, she's walked away from Annis’ glass, her eye of winter, out of that tale into this.
It was windy, with a clouted sky. The farm stood foursquare to the heavens, stonebuilt, with a line of trees to northward bending all one way. They danced. There were catkins on the hazels, taws of light, like whips to set the sun a-spin. Kit sneezed. There was pollen dusted in his hair and on his jacket, nebulas of bloom; he sleeved his face with Pleiades. “No geese,” he said. “There's a comfort."
"I'll go this time,” said Thea, peering through the hedge with him. They saw a drying yard, windriffled, up against the plainfaced farmhouse. There were two girls playing in the yard. They'd tied a rope to an iron ring in the housewall. One turned, the other skipped and sang. “My mother went to feed her crows, turn round and call them in...” The rope made rainbows in the plashy air; it slapped, slapped, slapped the stones. An unbreeched boy ran shouting with a whirligig. It flackered like a rising bird; it caught the sudden light. He tumbled in the mud. A woman in a cap and clanging pattens came out, a creaking wicker basket at her hip.
Kit and Thea slipped through the hedge. “Hallows with ye,” he said, and bowed. His back was urchined out with brooms.
The woman nipped the small clothes up. She was rosy with the wind, and round-armed, with wisps of grey-brown hair straggling from her cap. “Here's a rade o scoundrels,” she said to the peg box. “A-ligging and a-laiking, while us poor folk go to work. Well, I's counted shirts."
"...one for t'rider and one for t'horse and one for t'boatman, for to row me across..."
The boy was crouching by a puddle, frothing his toy in it.
Fiercely, the woman pegged the washing out: smock, petticoat, shirt, breeches, smock. All dancing in the wind. Kit tweaked the breeches by the strings. “Here's thy chance,” he said to them. “Do as I would."
"Huh,” said the woman, but her shoulders quirked. “Would yer go to be hanged?
"Not I. And yet die bravely in a dance,” he said.
Another woman looked out through the door. “Eh, Bet, what's to do?"
"A tain and his tally come a-begging. Lunish folk. Got besoms."
"Has they pins? We's short.” She came out on the doorstep, flapping her apron. She was small and crumpled, with a smear of soap on her brow. Looking at the travellers, up and down, she said, “If it's guising, yer a bit few."
"A sword and a bush,” said Kit.
"And late."
"The ways are very muddy,” said Kit.
"And our shoes are very thin,” said Thea.
"When's Lightfast i’ Lune, then? Come May?” The woman with the basket looked at Thea. “Where's crown? Is t'wren in yer pocket, then?"
"Under her apron,” said the woman at the door.
"Whisht,” said the other. “Ista lad then? Or Ashes?"
"Turns,” said Thea. “Whichever comes in next. Burnt Eldins."
"Aye well, if it's Eldins, yer first foot,” said the woman at the door, relenting. “Not see'd Arrish lads as yet.” Quirking at Kit: “What's he?"
Kit turned and shrank and darkened. The witch looked out through him, and cocked her shrewd black eye. Muck, said her mincing, and grubs, said her peck. Watching, Thea felt a thrill of uneasy laughter. He had Morag to the very nails. “The blood I brew, the bones I crack, I bear the childer on my back.” The little girls watched, the rope slack, their faces uncertain. He clawed his hands at them and waggled.
The brown girl's thumb went in her mouth; she clung to her sister's apron. But the little dark one said, “Yer not a witch."
"Who said?” He swung the little dark thing in the air, and clapped her in the empty basket, shrieking delight.
Thea rounded on him, ranting in high style. It was her turn for Burnt Eldins; she had the coat. “Wha comes on stones?"
"Awd Crowdybones."
"What's that ye've got?"
"I's getting eldins for to boil me pot.” Lantern and thornbush, like Mall-i'-th'-Moon.
"Wha's give thee leave to cut my wood?"
"Me glass and me riddle, they told me I could."
"All but nine, they may not go:
"That's eight."
Thump, went the basket. Thump. And the girl peeked out, with her hair all tumbled, rough as juniper, her eyes as blue.
Thea whirled on her heel. “Burnt Eldins is youngest of all of the nine, I see by her stockins you've hung on the line."
"I's not been etten yet,” said the girl. “It's all right, Tilda. Thou can look."
Kit crouched malefically. “Blood and bones, I'll crack, I'll crack, and fell and hair will patch me back. Eyes to me ravens, and breath to me bread, and fat for a candle to light me to bed."
Thea drew her sword of air.
"Take a broom,” said Kit softly. “Plays better."
"Ah. Right then.” Thea cleared her throat and struck a penny-plain bold stance. “Wha brings thee down but Hallycrown?” Turn and turn, they rimed.
"My tower's where thou'lt never find."
"They's left me a thread, and I walk and I wind.” Round in merrills in the mud, she trod.
"I's ower t'riddles and back o Cawd Law."
"They's spinned me a clew and I's under thy wall.” Thea ducked the clothesline.
"I's snecked t'door, thou shan't come in.” All a-twitter.
"Brock turns locks and lifts thy pin."
"What's within but mirk and mist?"
"But I's a sun frae Mally's kist.” She upraised a withered apple-john.
"Here comes my ravens to peck out thine eyes."
"And here comes my chopper, for to make ‘em mince pies."
Once, twice, thrice they clashed and down fell Morag in the mud. Kit clutched his heart, turned tipple, kicked his heels and croaked. Tilda giggled uncertainly. Thea snatched the child from the basket, and Kit spun it round with his foot. Down went the child in it. Thea spoke.
Kit whispered to the child, “Hang on.” He jumped up beside Thea and they took the handles of the creel. They hoisted it between them and they swung it, one two three, and whirled it round.
"Now Tilda's turn,” said the child when she'd got her breath.
"Thou gut yon fish,” said Whin. “It's that and slawk."
Kit turned from the bitter bright morning. Salt in candle flame: it sparkled. “Ah?” Carefully, from rock to driftwood, rock to rock, he hobbled back to the fire, took the knife in stiff hands. “What's this, a dolphin?"
"Herring,” said Whin. “Filched it. They'll blame cat.” She prodded at the pot of seaweed, doubtful. “So, where got yer that guising? Not i’ Lune."
"Imp Jinny. Said it might get an egg or two."
"Thin wind for thieving, March. All green and mockery.” Whin clapped the lid to. “Wants a whet to it, does slawk. Verjuice or owt.” She swiped the ladle with her finger, licked it. “So yer kept them rings."
"And who'd buy them?” Kit's hands were glittering with blood and scales. “Who'd make change? As good sell orchards in the moon."
"Spatchcocked, I think,” said Whin. She took the fish. “Salt enough."
"There were two left. For the—for the child, she said. Her portion. Those you took.” He rubbed his fingers dry in sand. “One spent, one tossed away in scorn. Three ta'en by—ruffians. And one she gave away."
"Did she, then?"
"To a boy. A whitehaired starveling boy. A scarecrow."
"Oh,” said Whin, so poignantly that Kit knelt up by her.
"What is't then? At thy heart?"
They came by a ploughed field, pricked with the new green corn. A crow lad with his clapper cried, he clacked his sticks and cried, “Ban craws!” The cold wind shook his rags. The crows took up into the air. It was a brash day, bare and windy, with a sky of curds and whey. Thea stood in the furrows, watching; Kit stood by her. A stone's throw away, the birds swirled and settled, like a fall of ashes, calling out. Their voices glowed and faded like the sparks from the anvils of war.
Kit said, “He cries them barley."
"They defy him,” said Thea. She was gazing at the sky. The clouds went swiftly. “Crows, that's all."
Cracked pepper, and a salt of smaller birds.
Hoarsely, hauntingly, the boy took up his chant.
Kit took up a stone and flung it in the birds’ midst. They shrugged derisively; they hopped a little sidelong, pecked. He ran at them, lickering his coat and crying, “Craws! Ban craws!” He clodded them with earth. Huffed as dowagers, they ruffled in their black; they snapped their well-I-never beaks. “Sod off!” yelled Kit. They rose and scattered in the wide grey sky; went silver and were gone.
Turning back, triumphant, he saw Thea, pinched and shivering among the furrows. He clouded over. They'd had nothing all that day; she could eat nothing when they had, but picked and spewed. Coarse provender, he thought: no stomach for't. And it was cold and muddy in the lanes, her shoes were worn—ah, not her slippers, cast away in ruin. These were new old shoes, clodhopping country boots, ill-sorted with her rags of Lunish finery. And dearly they had cost her purse: her silver comb. Now he saw how odd her clothing looked, how tattery. Half tinsel and half drab. He'd thought of it as hers. Herself. How strange that started brush of hair, that boys cried
Vixen!
At. Cried whore.
Seeing him forlorn, she clapped and called to him, “Oh, bravely done."
He grinned and wiped a sword of air and sheathed it. “My turn for the boy,” he said. The coat flapped windily.
"I'll be Ashes, then; I'm tired of Eldins."
Kit came and held her. “Ah,” he said. “Did I tell thee? I dreamed it hailed moonseed. ‘Twas full and it split."
"What sprang of it? Witches?"
"Children,” he said. “All naked as the moon, and shining, as they were made of sky. They danced."
Thea looked toward the barley-white boy, still crying. Further on, the ashes fell. “What then?"
"A woman caught them in her apron."
"And then?"
"I woke,” said Kit. “And seeing thee, forgot.” There was straw still in her hair: a garland. They were wed each day. Remembering, he plucked it out and gave it, lightly, to the wind. Then turning with her gaze, he saw the boy. “Poor lad, it's weary work, alone wi’ crows."
Thea said, “Shall we play, and let him play?"
"I'll not hang ranting from a pole, even to please thee.” He grimaced fiercely, knotting up his brows. “But I'll play thee a tyrant rarely, or a crone or what thou wilt."
"'Tis a strange play: we clap and they go."
"But an ancient play,” said Kit. “The first true gallant of the part was Tom o Cloud, who claps the shadows from the sky.” He'd taught her all of that: the names which country folk did give—Awd Flaycraw, Jack Orion—to the sprawl of stars she'd called the Gallows Tree. A bookish name. “Wilt play it naked, then?” said Thea.
"With a sword,” said Kit. He sang the old tune from the masque, the woodwo's brag:
They were walking toward the crow lad's coign. The earth by the headland was scratched with mazes, glittering with shards of hoarded glass. The crow lad blew his hands and stared. His coat was rags of sacking and his shoes were mud. His hempwhite head was bare, in a ravel of rope-ends.
"Hey, lad, would thy master hear a play?"
"Has dogs. And sets ‘em on."
And a stick, thought Kit. And lays it on. He saw the wary face and wincing shoulders. The bruises. The boy stared back unblinking. He had eyes as green as hail. Kit found the last of what they'd begged, a sadcake and a scrape of fat. “Here's for thy piece,” he said. The crow lad snatched it fiercely and he bit, he crammed. Kit waited. “What's thy name?"
"Called Ashlin."
"And thy kin? Who keeps thee?"
"No one,” said the boy. “I's lightborn."
"So am I,” said Kit. “We two are Mally's bairns.” He saw a bright child made of azure falling, rolling naked in the dust. They come to dust. The woman in his dream turned elsewhere, as her lap was full. And still the lightborn fell: so many for the world to waste. Not all of them, he thought to say. Not ours to come.
But Thea said, “And I am darkborn."
"See'd,” the crow lad said.
"But he and I go longways, out of Law.” She looked about. “Her eyes?"