THE BLACKBERRY WITCH: chapter 3

Link to chapters 1 & 2

III. The Old Man

Presently Thomas became aware that night was upon him. He stood up, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and glanced around. Somehow, without his noticing, the shopkeepers and villagers had returned to their stalls on the sides of the road, packed up for the day, and left again; all the canopies were folded and neatly stacked, and the shops with doors were bolted and shuttered.

The witch’s magic had done this, he realized. She had deceived his eyes somehow, or theirs, and had kept them from coming to Eleanor’s aid while she struck her bargain with Thomas in some kind of ensorcelled patch of dirt on the road hidden to the world around. Thomas thought about inspecting the road further, investigating the symbol where Eleanor and the witch had disappeared, but one step in that direction and his knees threatened to buckle. He therefore abandoned the thought and turned back toward Mídhel.

Thomas wandered back into town, feeling cut adrift and powerless. At last he found himself on the back stoop of the Gentle Goose. He took a seat on the wooden steps in the light that spilled from the kitchen doors. He could hear laughter and singing and the thump of steps and mugs inside the tavern.

He stayed outside. The Gentle Goose wasn’t the right place for a twelve-year-old boy, not after nightfall and especially not without his parents, though the relative quietness of Wednesday night meant that he could sit there for a while without being noticed. In fact, if he were lucky and quick, he could possibly sneak something from the kitchen while the cooks were busy breaking up a fight in the dining hall. That would surely keep his mind on other, less troubling matters for a while.

Ten minutes later, Thomas sat on the stoop once more, a day-old loaf of brown bread and a half-filled flask of water in his hands. The small victory pleased him less than he would have thought; he chewed slowly, methodically, while his mind churned on the witch’s words and the bargain he’d struck with her.

After finishing the bread and the water, Thomas felt marginally improved. His outlook on saving his sister was little better, but at least he now had some idea of what to do. He just had to retrieve the four objects and bring them back to the witch, and he had a week to do it.

Thomas wasn’t entirely without hope, either. He ticked off his advantages and strengths on his fingers. He was very familiar with the lands surrounding Mídhel, so even though he’d never encountered a boar in the hills nor seen the forbidden grotto nor even ventured into Palewater Bog, he still had a rough idea of where to begin. He was well equipped with tools: a spyglass to help him find the objects and a travelling book for important notes and observations about the different locations through which he must travel. He was young, too, and full of energy most of the time, especially after a good night’s rest. Thomas resolved to sleep well that night and head out the next morning full of vigor.

He was also starting on a fully belly, which he considered important.

His parents wouldn’t be pleased, but then, Thomas figured he didn’t have to tell them. They rarely kept him at home unless his chores were finished, and this week there was little around the house or in the fields he could help with; they were between harvests, and so far Thomas hadn’t ripped any new holes in his clothing. He double-checked his trousers and jacket just to be sure.

If he woke up early and tidied up the loft, and then gathered the eggs from the coop, he could probably leave just after sunrise and have the whole day to himself to search for the objects. That would be a start.

Thomas knew that his parents would ask questions about Eleanor. He also knew that they wouldn’t appreciate his answers. They might not believe him and they’d keep him home for telling lies. Worse, they might actually believe him. Thomas didn’t know what would happen then, but he knew it wouldn’t be good.

He decided to tell his parents that he’d found Eleanor at the North Road shops, which was true enough, and that she’d decided to travel with her friend Sarah’s family to the Grand Market in Clanneach, the nearest town to Mídhel, and that she wouldn’t be back for a week. That was all true too, except for the details, and he knew his parents would believe it without much convincing. That would allow him to take care of things without troubling them about the witch or his theft of her blackberries or about the dangers she’d threatened Eleanor with.

More than anything, Thomas knew he was responsible for getting his sister back safely. But he also knew he couldn’t do it without some advice on where to start, so he dusted off his trousers, picked the last crumbs off his jacket, jumped off the stoop, and headed back through the dwindling streets of Mídhel, which were now lit with lanterns in windowsills and warmed only by the distant touch of hearths and cooking-fires.

Thomas buttoned up his jacket as he walked. He was surrounded by lights and buildings and the voices of friendly familiar people floating on the breeze, so he wasn’t as frightened by the dark skies or creeping shadows as he might have been otherwise. It felt good to have a purpose, even though the circumstances were dire and the consequences deadly. It would feel even better to have a plan.

Thomas took the steps two at a time and knocked loudly on the old man’s door. He waited until the count of ten before leaning in to knock again, but before his fist struck wood, the door whipped open. Thomas caught himself before knocking the old man right in the forehead. Chagrined, he dropped his hand and his head in deference.

“Master Dúnanhneall the Wise,” he said. “I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but—”

“Quit scraping up my doorstep and come inside, Thomas,” the old man said irritably. “You know I’m in the middle of my supper. Come on, hurry up, the soup’s cooling.”

With a smile, Thomas followed the old man into his house, through the steaming kitchen, and into a cramped sitting room with two chairs and a small table. The room would have been spacious but for the books piled in every corner and the maps papering the walls and the various implements of metal and wood and even bone that were arranged, sometimes carefully, around the room.

Thomas took the chair opposite the old man and accepted gratefully the bowl that was offered. He didn’t bother to ask why Dúnanhneall had prepared two bowls; he had his guesses, and he knew that the old man would just deny them anyway.

The soup smelled delightful and tasted even better. The potatoes and onions and minced sausage would have gone perfectly with the brown bread; Thomas almost wished he’d saved it, though of course he couldn’t have foreseen this supper. He wasn’t the one in the room with that ability.

They ate in relative silence. Dúnanhneall offered Thomas a cup of cider, which he accepted, and a bowl of raspberries and blueberries, which he denied. Otherwise, the old man said very little, chewing his vegetables and meat with a contemplative look, gulping down the leftover broth, and then repeating the cycle twice more. Thomas took a second bowl as well. The soup warmed his stomach and softened his worries and seemed to even clear his head.

After supper was finished, Dúnanhneall carried the bowls and dishes to the kitchen, then returned to his chair with pipe in hand. He lit the pipe, puffed appreciatively a few times, and then turned his full attention on Thomas, who by this point was thinking that the chair was an awfully comfortable place to sit and rest for a while.

The sight of the old man’s wagging gray brows and bushy gray beard livened him up again, however, and he sat up straight in the chair. “Thank you for the meal, Dún. I really appreciate it. Sorry to bother you this late. I need your advice.”

The old man waved away the thanks as irrelevant and puffed on his pipe. “You always need my advice, and rarely at a time I would’ve chosen. Still, that’s no fault of your own. Tell me the story of the day.”

Thomas related to him the two encounters with the witch, including the bargain they’d struck and the fate she’d promised him and Eleanor should he fail. Dúnanhneall listened attentively, his puffs growing more and more solemn and his shaggy brows drawing together in wrinkled concern as the tale carried on. By the time Thomas was finished, the already dim room was smoky and shadowy and the old man’s face was creased with thought.

“Hmmm,” said Dúnanhneall when Thomas fell silent. He stroked his beard and puffed his pipe. “Hmmm. Tell me, Thomas. Did the witch have any distinguishing features? Any birthmarks or deformities? Any blemishes or boils or weird markings on her skin?”

Thomas shook his head. “Nothing like that. Her skin was pale white and smooth. She was actually beautiful, even though she was terrifying.”

The old man narrowed his eyes further. “What color did you say this gown of her was?”

“Violet.”

“Same as her blood, then? Hmmm. Raven hair and pale skin and violet blood and eyes that glowed red in the smoke. Beautiful and terrifying indeed. Hmmm.” He puffed again. “What of her magical devices or charms? Did she carry a wand or use a familiar or chant a spell?”

“She mostly just used her hands.” Thomas tried to remember. “She pricked her finger with the needle and used her blood too. And—well, I don’t know if this means anything, but she had an earring in one ear. More of a pendant, really. A silver snake wrapped around a silver tree.”

If this meant anything to Dúnanhneall, he didn’t show it; the graybeard simply puffed again, blowing out the smoke in a long stream that bunched up with the other purple and blue and black clouds hovering near the ceiling.

“Hmmm,” he said, for the last time. “Sounds like a wondrous dream, Thomas, and a captivating story. But are you sure you didn’t dream it up?”

Thomas stared. “Of course not!”

“Sounds to me like one of those old myths you like so much, the ones about fairies and devils and monsters.”

“I didn’t make it up, Dún! Eleanor was really stolen away by the violet witch!”

“Children are always getting kidnapped in those stories, aren’t they? They’re usually replaced by a changeling or a pixie. Have you checked Eleanor’s bed? Maybe you’ll find her replacement there.”

“Dún!” Thomas could feel himself getting agitated again. He almost thumped his fist on the table, but caught himself at the last moment. “Dún, you have to believe me. You’re probably the only one who will, and I really need help. I need to find the four objects, and I need to do it quickly. I’ve only got a week.”

The old man took the pipe from his mouth and tapped it thoughtfully against his chin. “I’m the only one who’ll believe you, huh? That doesn’t put me in very good company. What makes you think I’ll believe a story like this?”

“Because—” Because you’re a wizard, Thomas almost said. He knew it was true, knew it in his bones no matter what the graybeard claimed. According to Dúnanhneall’s many explanations, he had been a well-travelled young man who became a blacksmith’s apprentice and then a blacksmith for many years and then an old man who sat on his stoop reading books and chatting with passers-by. The old man claimed that was the extent of his life’s story, that his abilities reached no further than literacy and hammering hot metal and walking about with curious eyes.

Thomas knew better. He knew, just knew, that there was a reason people called the graybeard Dúnanhneall the Wise. People came to Dúnanhneall’s home for advice and counsel, just as Thomas himself was doing now, and they always left with their problems resolved, or at least viewed in a pleasanter light. Everyone seemed to respect Dúnanhneall and his wise words.

Thomas had also heard the other stories, the ones that spoke of magic spells and midnight incantations designed to bless the crops and scare away wolves. He’d heard the tales that Dúnanhneall spoke from time to time with the Fae, that in his youth he’d romanced a lovely Fae girl and that she’d imparted some of her gifts to him. Those stories about the old man were infrequent, but they matched what Thomas felt and always suspected.

Besides, Dúnanhneall matched every description of a wizard as recorded in the old stories: gray beard, bristling brows, long-stemmed pipe, cottage filled with books, years of experience and uncanny wisdom.

And, of course, a moderately cantankerous attitude.

Dúnanhneall reached out and tapped Thomas’s forehead with the pipe. Thomas coughed and realized that, lost in his own thoughts, he’d been silent for far too long. He struggled to remember the question and then tried to concoct a suitable answer that wouldn’t make Dúnanhneall dive into one of his tiresome lectures about how he wasn’t a wizard and that no one believed Thomas’s stories and that he should stop spreading such rumors and leave him in peace.

Thomas opened his mouth and replied: “Because you’re a wizard!”

A strange look came over Dúnanhneall’s face, something halfway between a smile and a grimace. The old man set his pipe down gently on the table, pushed back his chair, rolled his shoulders, and stood. He seemed to grow as he stood; Thomas could hardly see the top of the old man’s head, lost as it was among the smoke-clouds of various colors.

The room seemed to darken and a weird countenance stole upon the old man’s face. The furrows and wrinkles and creases deepened; the lines became more pronounced; some of the black strands in his beard faded to gray and white, while those that were white already reversed toward black. Dúnanhneall seemed older and younger, wiser and wilder, and yet Thomas—disconcerted, taken aback, surprised, and astonished—felt no fear.

The old man flung his arms wide, knocking a stack of books to the floor. The clouds of smoke collected around his hands and arms like sleeves. And then Dúnanhneall began to speak, his voice a gravelly rumble, intoning an odd little rhyme that he repeated three times in full:

“The boy who seeks a girl to save, a witch to slay, by seventh day; two companions new, unlikely and true; a quest for four before seven’s end ends.”

After the third recitation of the confusing half-poem, the mysterious lines with broken, unfinished cadence, the old man added, in a voice even deeper and more somber than Thomas had ever heard:

“Haste and hurry, haste and hurry: bone and wood, moss and home, and sprightly steps the father’s son whence the dark and dreadful come.”

The words seemed to echo for a long minute and vibrate through Thomas’s being. Then Dúnanhneall dropped his arms to his sides and was reduced to his normal size and appearance. The features of his old face returned to their previous state. The tiny clouds of smoke drifted back toward the ceiling. The room brightened a little, the several lanterns taking on new life.

The old man righted the books he’d disturbed and then sat down. “Well, Thomas, it’s probably time for you to be heading home now, isn’t it? I’m glad for the company to share in my supper, but I’m sure your parents will be asking after you soon enough, and you’ve got plenty to rest up for tonight.”

Thomas blinked and then coughed a little. “Dún . . . what?”

The old man picked up his pipe and rapped Thomas on the forehead with it. “Didn’t you hear me? You’d best be getting home now. It’s late.”

“Yes, but—Dún, what just happened?”

With a wave of his hands, as if that was a full response, Dúnanhneall busied himself relighting his pipe. After a few satisfying puffs, seeing that Thomas was clearly unimpressed and discontent with his non-answer, he sighed and leaned his elbows onto the table.

“Don’t make a big fuss about it like I know you want to, Thomas. The stories you tell around town with your friends are bad enough; I don’t want you adding to them with stories of smoke and chanting and strange magic poems. Best to leave it as a shared experience and let it go no further. Understand?”

Thomas nodded.

“Good.” Dúnanhneall leaned back and closed his eyes, puffing slowly.

Delight swiftly stole over Thomas as his surprise and confusion receded. “So you really are—you’re a wizard! Just like I said! You can do magic!”

Dúnanhneall cracked open an eye for just a moment. “Aye. Something like that.”

“Can you fight the witch?” Thomas asked. “Or maybe find Eleanor for me?”

The old man shook his head. “You know that I would if it were within my power, Thomas. But that’s not the way of these things. Your bargain with the witch, though made under duress, is binding. This is your quest to carry out. I’ve done my small part to point you in the right direction. That’s all I can do for now.”

“The rhymes? I don’t know what they mean. Something about companions and haste and bones.”

Dúnanhneall opened both eyes now. “You carry around that travelling book in your satchel, don’t you? I’d suggest you grab a piece of charcoal and write down the rhymes, for you’ll not hear them again from me, and they’re important. Fae magic like that doesn’t come easily, even to me.”

“But can you help me understand them?”

“Maybe,” the graybeard replied. “I can get you started again, anyway. You’re the boy trying to save your sister; you’ve got seven days to do it. You’ll find two companions—and don’t think I’m one of them; I’m not as unlikely as they’ll be. And you already knew what four items you need to find: I’ve helped tell you the order in which you should look for them.”

Thomas had pulled out his travelling book and was jotting down the words of the rhymes as best he remembered them. After scratching out a few wrong words, he corrected them and completed the lines, then scratched his chin. “Bone is first. The boar’s tusk?”

“Aye,” said Dúnanhneall, a little smile on his face. He closed his eyes again. “Now off with you. You need to sleep. You’ve got a fair bit to take care of tomorrow, after all. Go on, head on home.”

“Thank you, Dún.” Dúnanhneall the Wise, Thomas added mentally, but refrained from saying it. He packed up his things and headed toward the door.

“Thomas,” the old man called after him. Thomas turned back. “Please be careful,” Dúnanhneall said, quite seriously. “Come see me again if you need more help. And be safe. Witches are dangerous. So are the hidden things that live in the areas around Mídhel. Be wary and be careful and be safe.”

“I will, Dún. Thank you.”

Thomas took care to close the door tightly behind him. Before he did, he caught a last glimpse of Dúnanhneall in his chair, rocking slightly, smoke curling around his head and wafting up toward the ceiling, that little smile still on his lips.

Thomas hopped off the steps and set off at a quick pace toward home through the shadowed streets of Mídhel. He had been both mystified and delighted by the encounter and now felt, more than anything, a great impatient eagerness to crawl under his blankets and chase down sleep before the sunrise.

Tomorrow he would hike out into the western hills above Mídhel, the hills that were full of thistles and briars and wild beasts and blackberry patches, to search for the first item he needed to save his sister from the witch: a fragment the size of his thumbnail from the tusk of a boar.