A slow drum beat return. They rose, and sat.
Grevil stood bareheaded, bowed before the Riddlestones. “We will hear your will and weird. What rede ye?"
"Law.” One by one, the cloaked and hooded stones came forward, casting tokens in his rattling bowl. Eight black pebbles and a ninth of clouded grey. He shut his eyes, a moment only, soulstruck: like a tree about to fall, unfallen. Then he swept the tally up and showed them to the moot. “Eight and one."
He turned to the crow lad. “Thou wilt hear thy doom."
Dazed silence.
"Cloud will hang thee. Go by that road that thou cam'st, not walking but astride of wind.” There were ashes in the bowl; Grevil sained him. “Eyes to the ravens; breath to the blind worm; ashes to air.” He took the lykepale face between his hands. “Thy soul, for evermore untold, to Annis, at her will. So be it under Law.” And formally, judicially, he kissed him, mouth to mouth.
"If I wrong thee, I will take thy road."
And none but Margaret saw his hand rest, trembling, on the hempwhite hair; nor heard him whisper, “...sorry..."
But Master Corbet rose and gathered up the shirt. “Well, I'll not ride thee pillion. Here.” He bunched and tossed it at the stonestruck boy. “Thou mayst hang in it. I'll a dance at my wedding."
He set on the ring.
"There is a darknesse in the
Road,
a rift that runneth to the
Scythe;
but springing in the
Raven
it is call'd her Crawe: wherein my Glasse discovereth no starres. Yet here may bee a deeper Water, and a Catch of Souls.
Brock's Bagge,
our countryfolk do name it. In her secrets is the Soul possess'd..."
Mist all round him. White and still. No road. No sun nor moon. Nowhere.
Bonecold and blinded with the fog, the boy kneels by a standing stone. Half naked, in a slashed stained shirt. Bare neck and legs. No jacket—has he drunk that away? No shoes. And frayed rope knotted round each wrist.
Nothing, he remembers nothing.
Drunk?
he thinks; and tries to stand.
Reeling, he bows down again, flailed down by a storm of inwit, white black white, like crows that tear, like hailing starfall, like the lashing of a woman's hair, her cursing, as he—black red, the rending of her nails at—
No. Leave off.
The touch of stone steadies him. Starving cold he is, his wits dunted. Should clap. Get on. Late fire. He rises on whitecold feet and turns. Burnt moorland, rime, that endless mist. What way?
A small jangle and clack, in all that stillness. Like harness; but no horse. He turns, too dazed to ward himself but with an arm before his face, palm outward, and he sees a shadow walk. It shrinks into a traveller: a woman breeched and booted, in a leathern cap, as grey as any brock. There are runes of iron braided in her hair, that swing and jangle; blood and ashes on her coat.
"Where's here?” he tries to say.
"Thy road. And thy lodging."
"Let by. I's nowt."
"There's thy lawing to pay. For thy room here. Fire and fleet.” She holds out her scarred brown palm. “Gi's thy ring."
"Gone,” he says. No voice.
"And i’ thy keeping. It's thysel."
And dazingly, he has it, hung about his neck on a cord. He takes it in his hand, and turns it, glowering through his fingers like a wintry sun through ice. That wakes a dread in him. Its fire will dwindle him away, like snow from thorn; lay bare his bones. And if...? He stamps and feels no buzz of blood returning. Sees no cloud of breath.
A bare whisper. “Will you tell a death?"
The stranger takes and tumbles it from fingertip to finger, burning like an ember; then she quenches it in her bag. “Snaw's to be thy sark,” she says. “And wind's thy horse."
He stands earthfast, soulstruck. Cold out, his heart. In Ashes.
What road has he come? He shivers, pathless, in a dazzle of deaths. Again falls blazing from the masthead, burning drowned. Dances naked on the gallantry. Feeds foxes. Crows. Blind worms.
Brock takes his face between her hands, and kisses and kindles him. Blades pierce. Not blood but grief and memory returning, poignant in his flesh. All afire with cold. He shakes. She haps him in her old coat, black as earth; she lays him to her breast, and strokes him, cheek and chin, clagged hair, clemmed belly, and his sullen dart. He rises not; yet he dies in her. She takes him in her lap, and he is nothing, a worm in a hazelnut, a rattlebag.
He is crying; yet no tears will come. “Marget. I never told..."
"She's not for thy undoing,” says Brock, lifting his chin. “And thou's not yet done.” She sains him, eyes, mouth, heart. “Thou's nobbut guising for a man; yet thou brings t'sun. Will Ashes."
The lanterns stood unlatched on the sandwhite scoured table. They had hung in the rafters yearlong, from each hallows to the next, unheeded as the moon by day, or like the stars at a child's birth, that work their ministry beneath the sill of night. At Barbary's hest, the maids had hooked them down, and scoured them with sand and rushes. They were old and curious: of horn and silver, ironwork and tin and copper, wrought and pierced with images of moon and stars.
She had unlocked the catmallison for cakes and spicery; laid out a score of good wax candles, even to a scruple.
On the dresser stood the Ashes-supper: soulcakes and sheercake, warden tarts and sharp white cheese, goose pie, gilt parkin, hazelnuts, jugged hare, quince quiddany, a knoll of apple butter and a motte of damson cheese. Now Barbary with her sleeves pinned back bent briskly to the hearthfire, ladling up lambswool in a great turned bowl; and Wick Billy, sticky-mouthed and solemnly resplendent in a turned coat and Nick Hawk's breeches, handed round a plate of gingerbread.
The master, ill at ease, had sained them with a word and gone.
Now Madam condescended to the feast. Behind her, bracketed with crows, came Annot. Silence fell. The great witch played the loving mother's part, bid innocence farewell. In ceremony, kissed her daughter; even sained her candle, prettily.
How glum these hobnails are,
a lady said. For Barbary (in Grevil's name) had bid two or three grave gentlewomen of his kindred—even a Selby—to dress the bridal bed. A quiet wedding, as befit a widower of age: no less in dignity. Will or nill, then, Madam and her waiting women must attend that company, withdrawing to the nobler banket laid for them.
At their going, there was pandemonium, a racket of girls reeling stories, a charm and chitter like a grove of birds: as if October were the kist of May unlocked, with all its green distilled. Gallipots of gossip.
Jug. Jug.
And little wit. Blackbirds and thrushes.
And on the rooftree, the crows. They would follow Annot to the fellside, spying, lest their thrall be fled.
Margaret half-listened, hidden in the chimney corner. An orange cradled in her lap, half-peeled: she had no heart for merrymaking. In this hall but yesterday, the crow lad was condemned; and here tomorrow would she wed his death, her own: their wedding-journey to his gallows.
Just now the maids were teasing Nan.
"Thou's lang and light heeled,” said Doll her sister. “What if thou falls Ashes?"
"Happen I may."
"Wouldst thou bid Is Oddin's Tam frae her? Tam Sledger at forge?"
"Happen he'd come,” said Nan. And turned about, singing, “...which makes his bright hammer to rise and to fall..."
"So thou'lt be laid of a brat, come Barley."
"Happen I'd not be,” said Nan; but doubtfully.
"How? An if thou dost it head-a-tail, like herrings?"
"Whist,” said Nan. “I's have no salt fish. Oyster pies."
Ellender prinked her ribands, smiling. “What I'd take, I'd not give back."
"What, toss him?"
"Toy thysel?"
But heckle as they would, she'd not be drawn. Her silence grew around their teasing like a pearl.
Doll said, “I'd have a flock o geese and keep feathers."
"
Keep nowt,
” cried all.
"Feathers isn't geese. Not like eggs."
"Is bloom apples?” said Ellender.
"If happen thou couldst bid a storm, thou might keep snaw."
"Hailstones."
"Wind."
"Keep feathers, and I'd ha’ a bed,” said Doll. “But I'd not sleep, being Ashes, for t'weight o dark. But lie and shiver, thinking on."
Nan bent forward in the fireshadow, lowering her voice. “There were a lass were Ashes. And a stranger come asking, would she a tell a death? And he'd a mirror."
They were quiet then, the embers siffling as they fell.
Bestirring, Doll cried, “Ey! I knaws what Cat's after.” And she sang, as the maids did reeling off yarn:
shoemakker leather cracker
balls o wax and stinkin watter
three rows o rotten leather who would have a shoemakker?
But Cat Alys gathered up her skirts disdainfully, and said, “If I were Ashes I'd not take me some clownish swain. I'd walk abroad in siller shoon—"
"Rare and mucky they'd be wi’ guising."
"—a gown o't green silk and coats o't cramoisy—"
"Aye, that'll wear bravely wi’ Ashes’ coat. And thy feathery bonnet and all."
"—and a ring til every finger."
"And a fiddler afore thee?
"Aye, and trumpets and a drum,” said Cat. “And ye'd all on ye lout low when I's passing."
Round-eyed, Wick Billy said, “But I were a lass and fell Ashes—"
Howls of derision. “Thou'd wear a smock and petticoats."
"—I'd not. I'd eat sugared syllabubs my fill."
"And give them back? Puke or purge?"
Alys flourished at his breeches with her shears. “S'll ha’ to snip thee."
"Won't!” he roared, raising up his dish as buckler. “I's Awd Moon.” And he chanted, “
In comes I wi’ broom afore, to sweep yon hussifs frae th’ door.
And clash ‘em, and thrash ‘em, and down falls Sun."
"Never mind, Will Constant,” said kind Doll. “Thou and Sukey can eat allt tharfcakes, whilst we poor lasses trudge through mire."
Sukey had been biting moons of her gingerbread. “Why can't we gang?"
"Cause he's a lad and thou's a babby."
"Lasses gang. I's not got a tallywag atween my legs."
"Thou's not yet wanted one."
"Thou's not yet bled."
"Thou'd nobbut ask for a babbyhouse."
But Sukey said, “I'd want nowt. Just to be lating i't dark, and see t'stones walking, and t'stars awhirl."
Margaret looked swiftly up at her. Quite silent: but the light disclosed her.
Nan said, “Eh, then, there's Not Marget moping. What's thy will, if thou's Ashes? Thou's not said."
"Clag Sally,” said Doll. A tittering.
And Ellender, “My lady Grevil."
Cat Alys tossed her head. “She's getten awd Daddy Corbet til her bed. And there's her purse full."
"Here's a match,” said Ellender. “February Fill-Dyke's to wed t'First of April."
Doll shook her head. “'Tis a blackthorn wedding, January frost in May. ‘Twill untimely wither."
"
He'll
untimely wither. I'll lay that he's lost his whirly-whorl."
"Think ye he'll get mooncalves on her?"
"Think ye she'll horn him?"
"Yon fernseed? Couldn't horn a snail."
"And wha'd take her?” The old wheel with a sharp new spindle.
"Will Beggarstaff, Tom Rattlebag..."
"Tinkers and thieves."
Nan skipped and sang,
"Corbet had her first to wed / But Clapcraws had her first to bed."
"Clapcraws?"
"He that's to hang, Ash-morrow."
"Wi’ a fiddler afore him.” Awe and malice in Cat's voice. “'Tis like a ballad."
But now grave Barbary advanced with the mazer bowl, abrim with ale and apples. Lambswool. They fell silent, still with awe or damped and fidgeting. Turn and turn to each of the serving-girls she spoke a line; and each rimed to her, and drank.
"We know by the moon."
"That we are not too soon."
"We know by the sky."
"That we are not too high."
"We know by the stars."
"That we are not too far."
In turn Margaret rose and took the wassail bowl. “Thy word is,
By th'ground,"
said Barbary in her ear. “When there's Ashes cried, i't hallowing, there's one will come for thee. Thou follow.” False Annot bent to drink. It tasted bittersweet, of dark: the blood of barleycorn. A froth of apples kittled at her nose.
All but silently she said to Barbary, “You cast the white stone."
No answer to that. But the servant said, “It's mizzling out. Thou'lt take cold i'that frippery.” She put a furred jacket, strangely heavy at the seams, round Margaret's shoulders.
Ashes is waked on a dark shore, with the Ring half-buried by her hand.
The year is at its ebb, at Hallowstide. She lies asprawl between wave and shallows, sleep and waking, at the brim of Law. Time-drowned, light-stranded, she is lapped in glimmer, drifted in the shallows of the Way. Its outfall, where the dead lie silted, souls outworn by time. Her telling and untold. They had voices once, and memory; they are ground. They are shoaled about her: numberless and nameless, sand and shingle; with here and there a broken shell. Cloudstreaks cracked and faded, blunted pinnacles, the windings of a heart laid bare.
The Raven stoops to bear away her soul.
Dark-dazzled at the threshold, fire-blind, Margaret turned within a wider air, unbound, and sought the sky.
No stars.
So fierce a pang. It pierced her, pinned her like an angler's worm. She had imagined them so long in her captivity, ablaze in heaven. All her work undone: a harvest still ungathered, that a winter's hail would lodge. But it was cloud above as it was clagged below, mirk dark and mizzling. There would be no otherworld in gaze.
Nevermore.
She stood unmoving on the doorstone of the slurried yard: a cold mist on her brow and eyelids, cheek and chin. Her lamp—unlighted yet—already sweated with the fog; her clothes grey-silvered, hoary. All in Cloud.
And so broad a sky, laid bare by autumn, leafless, even to the skirts of heaven. And a moondark night. She could have seen—