Dragonfield (11 page)

He went down the path towards the town, though each step away from the tree drew his strength from him. Patches of skin peeled off as he moved, and the sores beneath were dark and viscous. His limbs grew more brittle with each step, and he moved haltingly. By the time he reached the midwife’s house, he looked an aged and broken thing. He knocked upon the door, yet he was so weak, it was only a light tapping, a scraping, the scratching of a branch across a window pane.

As if she had been waiting for his call, the midwife came at once. She opened the door and stared at what stood before her. Tall and thin and naked and white, with black patches of scabrous skin and hair as dark as rotting leaves, the tree man held up his grotesque, slotted hand. The gash of his mouth was hollow and tongueless, a sap-filled wound. He made no sound, but the midwife screamed and screamed, and screaming still, slammed the door.

She did not see him fall.

In the morning the townsfolk came to Drusilla’s great house. They came armed with clubs and cudgels and forks. The old midwife was in the rear, calling the way.

Beneath a dead white tree they found Drusilla, pale and barely moving, a child cradled in her arms. At the townsfolk’s coming, the child opened its eyes. They were the color of winter pine.

“Poor thing,” said the midwife, stepping in front of the men. “I knew no good would come of this.” She bent to take the child from Drusilla’s arms but leaped up again with a cry. For the child had uncurled one tiny fist, and its hand was veined with green and the second and third fingers grew together, slotted like a leaf.

At the midwife’s cry, the birches in the grove began to move and sway, though there was not a breath of breeze. And before any weapon could be raised, the nearest birch stretched its branches far out and lifted the child and Drusilla up, up towards the top of the tree.

As the townsfolk watched, Drusilla disappeared. The child seemed to linger for a moment longer, its unclothed body gleaming in the sun. Then slowly the child faded, like melting snow on pine needles, like the last white star of morning, into the heart of the tree.

There was a soughing as of wind through branches, a tremble of leaves, and one sharp cry of an unsuckled child. Then the trees in the grove were still.

“Thank you,” said the widow softly. She patted the Dream Weaver’s shoulder. Then she spoke to her child, “Come. We will go to your father’s people. They will take us in, I know that now.” She held out her hand.

The child took her hand, and as they began walking, he asked, “Did you like it? Was it a good dream? I thought it was sad. Was it sad?”

But his mother did not answer him, and soon the child’s voice, like their footsteps, faded away.

The Dream Weaver took the dream from the loom. “They, too, left without the dream. Such a small bit of weaving, yet they had no room for it. But it was not a sad dream. Not really. It had much loving in it. She should have taken it for the child—if not for herself.” And still mumbling, the Dream Weaver snipped the threads and finished off the weaving, stretching it a bit to make it more pliant. Then she put it, with the others, in her bag.

“Dream Weaver,” came a chorus of voices. The Dream Weaver sorted out three. Three children. Girls, she thought.

The boldest of the three, the middle child, stepped closer. All three were tawny-haired, though the oldest had curls with an orange tinge to them. “Dream Weaver, we have only one penny to spend. One for the three of us. Can you weave us one dream? To share?”

“Share a dream?” The old woman laughed. “It is the best way. Of course you can share. Are you … “she hesitated, then guessed, “sisters?”

“How can she tell?” whispered the youngest.

“Hush,” cautioned the middle child. “Manners!”

The oldest ignored them. On the edge of womanhood, she was aware of urges in herself she could not yet name. She gathered her skirts and her courage, and squatted down by the weaver. “Could you,” she began tentatively, “could you put true love in it?”

The Dream Weaver smiled. She had heard such requests many times over. But she would never have convinced the girl of that. Better to let the child think she was the only one with such a dream.

“Oh, true love!” said the middle child. “That’s all you ever think about
—
now. You used to be fun.”

The youngest girl lisped. “A cat, please, granny. Please let there be a cat in it.”

“A cat! True love! I only want it to be fun. For the penny we should have a good laugh,” the middle child said.

The Dream Weaver smiled again as she pulled the threads from her basket. “Well, we shall see, little ones. A cat and true love and a laugh. I have had stranger demands. But one never knows about a dream until it is done. Still, I will try. And since it is your dream, you each must try as well.”

“Try?” the three exclaimed as one. And the youngest added, “How shall we try, granny?”

“Hold hands, and I shall weave. And as I weave, you must believe.”

“Oh, we will,” said the youngest breathlessly. The other two laughed at her, but they held hands. The warp was strung. The weaver began.

There was once a noddy old woman who had only two things in the world that she loved—her son and a marmalade cat. She loved them both the same, which seemed strange to her neighbors but not to her son, Tom.

“I bring home food, and the cat keeps it safe. Why should we not share equally in her affections?” he asked sensibly. Then he added, “Though I am not the best provider in the land, the cat is surely the best mouser.
Ergo,
it follows.”

But of course it did not follow for the neighbors. To them such sense was nonsense. However, as it was none of their business, the old woman ignored their mischievous tongues and loved boy and cat the same.

One day the old woman caught a chill, grew sicker, and likened to die. She called Tom and the cat to her bed. The village elders came, too, for they went to deathbeds as cats to mackerel; the smell, it was said, drew them in.

“Promise me, Tom,” said the old woman in a voice as soft as down.

“Anything, Mother,” said Tom as he sat by her bed and held on to her hand.

“Promise me you will marry the marmalade cat, for that way she will remain in our family forever. You are a good boy, Tom, but she is the best mouser in the land.”

At her words, the elders cried out to one another in horror.

“Never,” cried one.

“Unheard of,” cried the second.

“It is against the law,” declared the third.

“What law?” asked the old woman, looking over at them. “Where is it written that a boy cannot marry a cat?”

The elders looked at one another. They twisted their mouths around, but no answer came out, for she was right.

“I promise, Mother,” said Tom, “for I love the marmalade cat as much as you do. I will keep her safe and in our family forever.”

As soon as Tom had finished speaking, the cat jumped onto the bed and, as if to seal its part of the bargain, licked the old woman’s face, first one cheek and then the other, with its rough-ribbed tongue. Then it bit her softly on the nose and jumped down.

At the cat’s touch, the elders left the room in disgust. But the old woman sat up in bed. Color sprang into her faded cheeks, and she let out a high sweet laugh.

Tom’s heart sang out a silent hallelujah. He rose to shut the door. When he turned back again, there was an orange-haired girl with green eyes standing where the cat had been, but the cat was nowhere in sight.

“Who are you, and where is the cat?” asked Tom.

“Why, I
am
the cat,” said the girl. “But if we are to be wed, it is best that I wear human clothes.”

“I liked you well enough before,” said Tom, looking at the floor.

“Well, you will like her well enough after,” said his mother sensibly. She got out of bed, toddled to the door, and called out to the village elders who were already more than halfway down the road.

Smelling a miracle, the elders turned back. And though they did not like it all the way through, they agreed to marry Tom and the girl at once. “For,” said one to the others, “a girl with orange hair and green eyes and the manners of a cat should not be left to wander the village on her own.”

Several days went by before the elders returned for a visit.

“We are glad to see you are still well,” the first said to the old woman as she sat and nodded by the fire.

“Some miracles are but a moment long,” said the second. He tried not to stare at Tom’s new wife who lay dozing on the hearth, her skirts tucked up around her long slim legs.

But the third leaned closer to the old woman and whispered in her ear. “I have been wanting to ask—how is she as a bride?”

“Cat or girl, I love her still with all my heart,” said the old woman. “And she is the perfect girl for Tom. She is neat and clean. She is quick on her feet. She has a warm and loving heart.”

“Well,” said the third elder, twisting his mouth around the word, “I suppose
that
is good.”

“Well,” said the old woman, smiling up at him, “if that were all, it would be good enough. But there is even better.”

“Better?” asked the elder.

“Better,” said the old woman with a mischievous grin. “She is neat and clean and quick on her feet and has a warm and loving heart. And,” she paused, “she is still the best mouser in the land.”

The three girls laughed their thanks and walked away, chattering. They left the dream behind.

The Weaver began to remove the dream when angry steps caused her to pause.

“You again,” she said.

“It might not be a minstrel’s dream. You said that. So, for the coin I gave you already, finish the dream.”

“I cannot finish that one,” said the Dream Weaver. “The fragment is already packed away.”

“Do not try to wheedle another penny from me,” the man shouted. He moved as if to turn away.

The Dream Weaver shook her head. “I want no more from you,” she said, “though I would not turn down another penny.”

“Here,” he said, and threw a coin at her feet.

The Dream Weaver found it and tucked it away, then added, “I will pick threads that are close to the first ones. But they might not be a match. Will you stay through this time and listen to your dream?”

The man grunted his answer and watched as the old woman finished off the girls’ dream and rummaged in her thread basket. She pulled out several.

“How can you be sure those are near the color of the last when you cannot see?” asked the man.

The Dream Weaver was silent as she finished sorting the threads.

“Well?”

“By the feel, man. Just as I can tell, from your voice, the look of your face, though I have no eyes.”

“And what is that look?” he asked.

“My answer would not flatter you!” she said. “So hush, for the dream is beginning.” She threaded the warp and began.

In a village that lay like a smudge on the cheek of a quiet valley, there lived an old woman and the last of her seven sons. The oldest six had joined the army as they came of age, and her husband was long in his grave. The only one left at home was a lad named Karl.

Even if he had not been her last, his mother would have loved him best for he had a sweet disposition and a sweeter voice. It was because of that voice, pure and clear, that caroled like spring birds, that she had called him Karel. But his father and brothers, fearing the song name would unman him, had changed it to Karl. So Karl he had remained.

Karl was a sturdy boy, a farm boy in face and hands. But his voice set him apart from the rest. Untutored and untrained, Karl’s voice could call home sheep from the pasture, birds from the trees. In the village, it was even said that the sound of Karl’s voice made graybeards dance, the lame to walk, and milk spring from a maiden’s breast. Yet Karl used his voice for no such magic, but to please his mother and gentle his flock.

One day when Karl was out singing to the sheep and goats to bring them safely in from the field, his voice broke; like a piece of cloth caught on a nail, it tore. Fearing something wrong at home, he hurried the beasts. They scattered before him, and he came to the house to find that his mother had died.

“Between one breath and the next, she was gone,” said the priest.

Gently Karl folded her hands on her breast and, although she was beyond the sound of his song, he whispered something in her ear and turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” called out the priest, his words heavy with concern.

“I am going to find Death and bring my mother back,” cried Karl, his jagged voice now dulled with grief. He turned at the door and faced the priest who knelt by his mother’s bed. “Surely Death will accept an exchange. What is one old tired woman to Death who has known so many?”

“And will you recognize Death, my son, when you meet him?”

“That I do not know,” said Karl.

The priest nodded and rose heavily from his knees. “Then listen well, my son. Death is an aging but still handsome prince. His eyes are dark and empty for he has seen much suffering in the world. If you find such a one, he is Death.”

“I will know him,” said Karl.

“And what can you give Death in exchange that he has not already had many times over?” asked the priest.

Karl touched his pockets and sighed. “I have nothing here to give,” he said. “But I hope that he may listen to my songs. They tell me in the village that there is a gift of magic in my voice. Any gift I have I would surely give to get my mother back. I will sing for Death, and perhaps that great prince will take time to listen.”

“Death does not take time,” said the old priest, raising his hand to bless the boy, “for time is Death’s own greatest possession.”

“I can but try,” said Karl, tears in his eyes. He knelt a moment for the blessing, stood up and went out the door. He did not look back.

Karl walked for many days and came at last to a city that lay like a blemish on three hills. He listened quietly but well, as only a singer can, and when he heard weeping, he followed the sound and found a funeral procession bearing the coffin of a child. The procession turned into a graveyard where stones leaned upon stones like cards in a neglected deck.