THE BLACKBERRY WITCH: chapter 11

All chapters of The Blackberry Witch

XI. The Grimgrove

Their float down the river was pleasant and peaceful. Thomas and Cathán rode the large log and Avery floated above, keeping a gentle pace due east toward the Grimgrove. When Thomas grew tired of holding on to the log, he stretched out onto his back and paddled behind it, eyes closed, letting Cathán warn him of any obstructions ahead. Swimming in lakes and rivers was one of Thomas’s favorite things to do, and he was tired from walking all day Thursday and adventuring all night, so he let the stream wash away his weariness and worry and just drifted along.

When he wasn’t floating and resting, Thomas listened to the stories that Avery and Cathán told. The raven’s tales were outlandish and contradictory and largely extemporaneous, Thomas thought. But he enjoyed them all the same. Cathán stories mostly involved heroic charges of the legions of the Thistledown Kingdom against neighboring countries of other animals, mythical beasts, monsters, and even a ghost that the Mouse King had banished with a mage-made wand. The First Captain’s most touching story, however, was when he spoke of how his own mother had sewn him a little patch to wear on his armor the first time Cathán marched into battle with the First Legion.

“It had an image of an acorn on it,” Cathán recalled, his gaze distant, seeing beyond the river, “and a few holly-berries and a little sprig of wilderbark leaf. And if you looked at it just right, you could see a mouse’s nose hiding in the acorn. I thought it looked like my mother’s. She always said it was mine.”

“What happened to the patch?” Avery asked.

“I gave it back to Mother when I was made First Captain,” Cathán said proudly. “She and Dad are living in a little cottage south of Luchamhá, right by an old oak with a knot on its trunk. I go to visit them every week or two, when I can spare the time. She’s got the patch on her wall.”

Friday morning unfurled wings of gossamer over the stream and the neighboring trees, yellow to gold to palest blue, sheltering the floating companionship in warmth. Morning swiftly became afternoon, a stronger blue with wisps of white clouds and a fair steady breeze at their backs, a Friday’s blessing and boon. Thomas and Cathán drifted on, and even Avery alighted on the log to rest a while and continue his storytelling.

The afternoon warmed and Thomas dunked his head beneath the stream’s surface to cool off. “How much farther must we float?” he asked, shaking droplets from his hair.

Cathán stirred in the little bed he’d made atop Thomas’s bundle of belongings. The Mouse Knight stretched and yawned with a squeak. “Should be getting close now,” he said, twisting around to look ahead. “Another hour or so before we’re in the Grimgrove proper. Probably can’t make it into the trees before dusk, so we’ll have to camp on the shore. But we can start earliest in the morning to get the acorn and get you back to your parents for a spell.”

Thomas was disappointed, but he had heard the rumors about the Grimgrove, the warnings against traveling there at night, or even at all for young boys and girls. He kicked his legs to speed them along.

“Splash a little more, Thomas,” Avery suggested. “I’d love to see the Mouse Knight’s coat when it’s been freshly washed.”

Cathán scowled. “My coat is perfectly presentable as it is, raven. Are you sure you’ll manage in the Grimgrove? Wouldn’t you be safer in the hills, or tucked away in a cushioned nest somewhere?”

“There’s no one for me to tease in the hills,” said Avery. “Besides, the rest of the Blackhill Clan know that I like to explore the world on my own, far away from their trees and squabbling. I’m free to travel where I please, and for now, I’d like to see more of this Grimgrove. Seems pleasant enough from here, name notwithstanding. And perhaps I’ll get you to take a bath yet.”

Cathán took a few steps away from the prow of the log and settled in again. “Wary, raven. I’ve bow and arrow, sword and shield, and I’m faster than you by half.”

Soon Cathán’s squeak-snores sounded quietly from the lump of Thomas’s jacket. Thomas continued drifting on his back, watching Avery’s stark silhouette against the blue sky and the leafy boughs above, listening to the lapping of the water and humming a little half-remembered song now and then. The water of the stream was cold and the sun was warm and the breeze ruffled his hair and sent sweet-smelling flowers twirling over the banks. The scents of moss and wet rock and green grass were strong and clean.

Finally the stream dropped down to a shallow pool with a sandy bank and overhanging lindens. Thomas pushed the log ashore, grabbed his jacket and satchel, and stood on firm earth for the first time in hours. His shoes were wet, so he removed them and rolled his trousers up to his knees and dug his toes into the sand and dirt.

Cathán jumped from the log and sniffed. “Aye,” said he, “the Grimgrove. We should set our camp here.”

Thomas frowned. “We can’t go on a little farther? There’s plenty of light left in the day.”

Avery landed on the shore in a ruffle of feathers. “Not safe, human boy. No traveling after dark in the Grimgrove. That’s a rule even I will follow. We won’t make it far enough today to find your acorn, unless it’s lying a dozen wing-lengths within the trees, which I doubt. And we’d get stuck out there on our own. No; we should camp here on the shore, near to the river and away from the deeper wood, and set out first thing in the morning.”

“I know you’re eager to find the acorn and save your sister,” Cathán said consolingly. “Sick with worry, I’m sure, and with a brave heart pounding in your chest. But we cannot save her if we’re swallowed up by the dark and slimy things of the Grimgrove in the middle of the night. We’ll go after the acorn as soon as we can. For now, we should have some food, get some sleep, and prepare ourselves for tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Thomas said, relenting. “I could definitely use some food. I don’t have anything in my satchel and I haven’t eaten since last night’s feast. What is there to eat around here?”

“Fish,” suggested Avery, “if you’re quick. Berries if you’re not. Or perhaps we could snatch some rodents while they’re sleeping unawares.”

Cathán unburdened himself of his sword, shield, bow, and quiver of darts. “Perhaps I could shoot us down some fowl,” he said brightly, dipping his paws into the pool and cleaning his whiskers and ears. He shivered and shook himself dry. “At any rate, Thomas, can you get us kindling for a fire? We’ll want to warm ourselves in the night. The raven and I will hunt for some food.”

“Sure,” agreed Thomas, setting his satchel and jacket in a pile next to his drying shoes. He took off his knit cap as well, splashed some water on his face, and ran his wet fingers through his hair. “Don’t you turn on each other, though.”

“No promises,” said Avery, taking to the skies again. Cathán sniffed and scurried away, lost quickly in the brush.

Thomas set himself to gathering sticks and dried leaves for the campfire. He picked up an armful, carried it back to the sandy shore, and then returned to the trees for another stack. Following his mother’s example, Thomas picked up some old pinecones, a large cedar branch, and a handful of purple catmint flowers, adding them to the pile of kindling. He stayed close to the shore despite his eagerness to search for the acorn and free his sister, trusting in the warnings of his companions.

After a time, Avery dropped back into the camp, all feathers and a series of squawking words that Thomas suspected were bird-curses. The raven spat out a beakful of crickets. He quickly hopped forward and stepped on two of them that were attempting to hop away.

“Blasted things,” he said, squinting down to inspect them. “Tried to get away from me, then faked they were dead to wriggle and pinch inside my mouth. Tricks don’t work on me, dead crickets, but they do smart.”

Avery looked up at Thomas. “Fine stack of kindling, boy. Has the mouse brought us anything yet?”

Thomas shook his head.

“Ah,” said Avery, rubbing his beak, “then I’ll go fetch us some roots to go with these crickets. How about worms? do human boys eat worms?”

Thomas made a face. “Not if I can help it. I’m not fond of crickets either, for that matter.”

Avery shrugged. “Humans and their sensitive bellies. Very well. I’ll see what I can find.” And off he flapped.

Avery and Cathán both returned a few minutes later. Thomas sat by the fledgling fire, which he’d sparked with stones until a little flame caught on some dried moss and leapt thence to twigs and small branches. He’d set the pinecones and green cedar and catmint aside for after their meal. He’d also dragged up the log upon which they had floated down the river, using it now as a bench, and he dug his toes into the sand and warmed his hands on the fire.

Avery dropped onto the shore near the pile of crickets and tossed some roots onto the sand. Thomas didn’t recognize them.

“Dahlia tubers, you’d call them,” Avery said. “My people have their true name, of course, but I can’t be saying that here and now. They’re quite a fine addition to any meal, especially since the Mouse Knight has been so unsuccessful in his search.”

“Not so!” cried Cathán, leaping up onto the log. He bore a fish upon his back, its scales spotted with gold and black. He tossed it before the fire and brushed off his paws. “Garpike,” he announced proudly. “Finest fish in the river, and a large one by mouse standards as well. Thomas, I think this will serve nicely for your meal. I also snatched a sprig of dill as a garnish. Even in the wilderlands, the mice of the Thistledown Kingdom are known for culinary expertise. Avery and I will satisfy ourselves with small bites of garpike and the crickets. You can have the larger share of the tubers.”

Thomas’s stomach rumbled loudly in agreement. The three companions set to preparing their meal, and soon dill-seasoned garpike and crickets roasted over the cheery fire while stone-pressed tubers browned in the embers. At last the meal was ready. Thomas ate ravenously, savoring the flaky garpike, pulling piping chunks from its thin bones and enjoying the balance of soft flesh and crunchy scale. He tossed the inside bits of the fish to Cathán and Avery, who picked clean the bones. Cathán even selected a few of the larger bones to serve as darts for his bow.

The dahlia tubers had been roasted to sweetness and softness, and though Thomas wished for some butter or honey, he enjoyed them and their hearty warmth in his belly. He even crunched down one of the crickets, and he was surprised to find that it was largely enjoyable, like a nut or the last blackened bit of lamb in a stew.

The companions ate their food and refreshed themselves with draughts of water from the river, then scooped out makeshift beds in the sand with the fire separating them from the dark trees beyond. Thomas placed the pinecones and cedar branch and catmint in the fire. They flamed and crackled and released a heady sweet scent into their campsite, a pleasant post-dinner aroma that reminded Thomas of home.

“Do you think we’ll find the acorn tomorrow?” he asked, stretching out in his hollow of sand with his jacket as a pillow. The stars above twinkled in a velvet sky. Friday slept now, having descended into night, ceding to darkness and the coming Saturday morning.

“Aye,” said Cathán, his small hollow-bed very close to Thomas’s left ear. “You said the witch called it a prized acorn?”

“Yeah.”

“Then it should be fairly easy to locate.” The sand creaked as the Mouse Knight shifted in his bed. “I’ve hunted down and obtained a good number of prizes and trophies in my days as an adventurer, and with the three of us here to perform heroic deeds, we shan’t need long to claim this one.”

Avery, who had dug out a hollow of his own but claimed to prefer sleeping propped up, spoke from Thomas’s other side. “I don’t suppose either of you have seen an anthill nearby, have you?”

“No,” said Thomas and Cathán as one.

“Shame,” Avery replied, fluffing his feathers a little.

“Why?” Thomas asked.

The raven didn’t reply for a long moment—long enough that Thomas cracked an eye to peek at him. Avery looked a bit embarrassed, and began to groom his wing-feathers perhaps a bit too aggressively. Finally he said: “It’s nothing, really. Just some personal business. You know all about that, don’t you? Say, human boy, is this the first time you’ve been outside your human village? You seem pretty used to river-floating and foraging, that’s all. I thought humans only liked to collect odd trinkets and stay in their stone nests and eat animals.”

That made Thomas laugh. “I’ve been out of Mídhel a few times,” he said. “And I’ve spent a lot of time outside in the village too. We have fields and crops and even a park with some nice trees and a patch of grass.”

“Ah,” replied the bird. “I’ve flown near your village but never gone inside. I like the lights at night, though. They’re comforting. So you’ve roved the countryside beyond your home, eh? Traveled the lands hither and fro?”

“Not so much as all that,” Thomas admitted. “Mostly just to the west of Mídhel, in the woods and hills there. Near the Thistledown Kingdom, I suppose, though I didn’t know much about the kingdoms of animals before. I’ve been eastward once or twice, though only to the Riverbridge to see the merchant-caravans traveling on the road. They say there are more villages and towns along that road, east and east toward the sea.”

He fell silent and thought a moment, then added, “Dúnanhneall the Wise took me to the Palewater Bog once. He wasn’t supposed to; my parents don’t want me going there. They say you can see ghost-lights on the surface of the water at night. Dún took me at eventide, after the sun went down, and I thought I could see some yellow lights in the distance. He told me they were just fireflies and little eruptions of muck from the bog. But he also told me he wasn’t a wizard, and I now I know that’s not true, so I’m not sure what to think.”

“I’d believe the legends,” said Cathán. “I’ve seen a few ghost-lights as far south as the Whiskered Wood, floating right next to the mages’ observatory. And you should know from our battle against the Nathaia Iór that there are plenty of monsters and mischief-makers in these lands.”

“Are there monsters in the Grimgrove?” The thought made Thomas a little nervous. “I’ve heard not to travel here at night, but nothing more. What about selkies, or the dullahan, or—?”

“Monsters, yes,” replied Avery. He chirped a little. “But not those things. Our Mouse Knight Captain would have found the selkies’ den and brought back one for the fire if there were any living in the river. And the dullahan never strays from the eastern road. Everyone knows that. Our mothers told it to us as fledglings: that the bloody man would come snatch us to serve as his messengers and pluck our feathers to clean his teeth if we strayed out of the nest without permission.”

“Aye,” said Cathán, sleepily, “we needn’t worry about those things, nor many of the other dangerous creatures we tell stories about. But we should be careful. There are things that lurk in these woods, slimy things, and more than a few patrols have lost brave mouse-warriors when they strayed too close after dark. We’ll save our search for day’s light and keep our swords sharp-out.”

That comforted Thomas only a little. “What about good things?” he asked. “Are there any of those in the Grimgrove?”

“Certainly,” replied Avery. He’d bunched himself up into a sphere now, only his beak protruding and his eyes shining in the firelight. “Why, a few weeks ago I came across a delightful fellow in the outskirts of the Grimgrove, though he was traveling far north of here, near the borders. He looked a bit like a bird and a bit like a cat. Very furry, and not too clever, but he shared some berries with me . . .”

Thomas closed his eyes and lay his head back and listened to Avery’s obviously fabricated story until he drifted off to sleep on the shores of the river. He fell quickly into dreams. The first ones involved running through the wheat fields near the west square in Mídhel, the lands of Farmer Weller, laughing and trying to race the farmer’s old shaggy hound. Next, Thomas fell through the wheat, which turned to sand, and slipped on the pebbles at the bottom of a pond until a large fish picked him up and carried him home.

Some of his dreams were hard to follow, vanishing as soon as they ended. Others were filled with scenes of nostalgia and warmth, reminding him of home, making him smile as he turned onto his side in the sand-hollow on the shores of the Grimgrove, Cathán snuggling closer so that his whiskers tickled Thomas’s brow. Some of the dreams were confusing or muddled, others vibrant and coherent.

After many dreams, including a romp through the skies with the fairies of Palewater Bog, Thomas found himself dreaming of a quiet evening back in Mídhel. He sat on the fishing-dock of the Riverbridge on the eastern end of the city. Eleanor was there, and Cathán, and Avery far above, and others besides. Thomas held a bowl of blackberries and another of figs in his lap. He dangled his feet in the river and savored the delicate fruits and let the wind ruffle pleasantly through his hair.

Someone nearby started playing pipes. They were high and lilting, airy, not the deep rumble of the bards that sometimes passed through Mídhel but the skilled and fluttering sounds produced by filid, the master-poets and singers of old stories. It even sounded like what Thomas imagined fairy-music to be, evoking a deep sense of wonder and adventure in him, and also a certain melancholy and wistfulness.

He closed his eyes and chewed on a fig and hummed along to the melody. As it progressed, notes layering and weaving a story without words, something struck Thomas as odd. He ate another fig, followed by a blackberry, and kept listening. The odd feeling stayed with him, nagged at him. After a time, it intruded on his enjoyment of the song. He tried to open his eyes to find the disturbance, but as often happened in his dreams, he was unable to do so without great effort. He sat there, on the dream-dock, berries and figs in hand, feet now wrinkled by the river, and strained his eyelids until they snapped open.

Thomas awoke. He found that he was not on the Riverbridge fishing-dock with his sister and friends. He also realized, with a start, that he was not on the shores of the Grimgrove.

Thomas was strapped to a plank and floating down the river in the dark.

He thrashed, or tried to, but the bonds holding him were fast and strong. He jerked his head to one side and was rewarded with a mouthful of water, which he spat out hurriedly. Then Thomas lifted his head a few inches and peered about.

Heavy ropes securing him to a long, rough cedar plank at the ankles, knees, stomach, and shoulders. He floated feet-first down the river, which must have picked up after the pond, as it carried him along at a decent speed. Starlight shone upon the river, and up ahead burned a large fire, its glow turning the trees on either bank red and orange.

A small creature paddled next to the plank, one webbed hand on Thomas’s leg. Thomas made a strangled sound in his throat. The creature looked over and made a sound of its own, a strange noise like the fluttering of a wooden pipe or flute. The noise was answered by similar cries from elsewhere in the river, and Thomas glanced about to see several other creatures swimming alongside and watching him.

The things were black-skinned, nearly indistinguishable from the river save for the starlight, and they had three large white eyes in their broad flat faces. They reminded Thomas of frogs, somehow, though large and clever and wild and strange. They paddled with swift sure strokes, moving through the river with ease. Now and then they made piping calls one to another.

Thomas glanced around but could see no sign of Cathán or Avery or any other source of help. He looked ahead and gulped. The fire was growing larger, nearer, and he could see black shapes hopping and dancing around it, dozens of them. Their odd pipe-voices carried across the river to him.

Thomas struggled against his bonds, but again they held. The pipe-sounds and the dancing reminded him of triumphant hunters before a big feast of celebration, and he worried very much at what his own role would be in their affairs.

Still the fire drew closer.