THE BLACKBERRY WITCH: chapter 16

All chapters of The Blackberry Witch

XVI. Trouble at Home

Saturday afternoon was full upon the stream separating the Grimgrove from the wild woods of four-legged and feathered creatures. Saturday sunlight shimmered on the water, reflecting greens and blues and browns in vibrant tones. Saturday breezes sent tawny leaves fluttering onto the cedar-plank raft, ruffled through shoreline grasses and Thomas’s uncapped hair, whistled among the boughs that clustered on either side of the stream like gathered guardians. Saturday songs permeated the woods: not the songs of man, but the chirp of bird-kind and the discordant ribbit of frogs and the strange blooping croak of scarlet salamanders and the chatter and scuffle of squirrels and hares and mice running messages for the Thistledown King. All these formed lovely songs of Saturday.

Thomas basked in the sunlight and the breezes and the songs. He was worried about his sister; it was a worry that never really left him, not even in moments of mirth and joy. But it had subsided, crawled back to the recesses of his mind and heart, for he had acquired both the boar’s tusk and the prized acorn and was well on his way toward the third item. He knew that Saturday’s ripening meant he would very soon reach the halfway moment of his allotted time, and that worried him further.

But Thomas also knew that Saturday afternoons are meant for adventure and romp and courage. So he let the day claim its own in full spirits.

“Avery,” the boy said suddenly, his feet dangling in the water, ostensibly paddling but mostly just dangling. “What was that story you were telling us earlier? about the Wildtail Clan, and the war of the birds, and a whole host of other things?”

“I don’t recall any such words,” said Avery, near Thomas’s head. “I don’t recognize that name in the slightest.”

“Pity; it was a lovely story.”

“Indeed it was!” cried the bird proudly. “And one of my very best! Yes, of course, a fine story it was and marvelous. But, in all factuality and truth, I have many more stories to share that are far better, far cleverer, far truer and more exciting than the silly fables of the Wildtails. In fact that story is not altogether interesting in the slightest; I don’t know why you keep harping on it. May I proceed then with the tale I was right in the middle of just now, or are you going to keep interrupting?”

By now Thomas knew better than to correct or contradict the raven; but he smiled to himself, privately, before saying, “Please do, Avery.”

“Very well. At last a sensible voice speaking for once. And listen up too, young mouseling, for there’s no mistaking the very real and practical value contained within this forthcoming story for a creature of your budding caliber and dubious fiber.”

Avery flapped around a little so he could face both Thomas, who was reclined, and Cathán, who sat on Thomas’s stomach. The current of the stream was in fact quite smooth and traveling in the right direction, leaving them little need to paddle at all on their way back to Mídhel. Thomas’s belly was warm with stew and beneath the comforting weight of the Mouse Knight, who for his part was letting out a chirruping noise like a snore, despite being, insofar as Thomas could tell, still awake.

“Yes, let’s see, where was I. Aha! I shall begin the tale, of course, with the ending of another. Once, in a time and place far distant, a human maiden had taken ill and was made to sleep in a bed of white lilies and marigold petals in a remote cottage far distant from her home. It was thought by her people that this would cure her illness and recover her strong spirits.

“And in fact they were correct in their healing-lore, and the maiden awoke and left her bed and cottage and returned home rejoicing. And that is the end of that story. But now we move on to the beginning of the next, the true tale chosen to captivate and inspire. The maiden, upon returning home, found that she could no longer speak the tongue of her people, nor indeed make any sounds the others in her village recognized.

“Instead the maiden now spoke the language of the forest, that gentle murmur and secret sigh known to those who crest the vale of eternal slumber but do not descend. The villagers thought her ill anew, and they bade her return to her cottage and flower-bed and rest. And so the maiden returned and reposed; and when she awoke, night had overtaken the cottage and moonlight shone through the window and made the lilies look like teardrops and the marigold petals look like droplets of fire.

“The maiden opened her mouth to speak. From her throat came the dusky-sweet sound of the forest-tongue: alive with leaf-rustle and the stretching creak of growing bark, with the murmur of raindrops and the glitter of stars, with the silent laughter of forest-things that lie beyond the ken of man or beast.

“But the maiden heard her words and understood them, and she wept at the beauty of the language of the woods. No more had she any desire to return to her village; indeed, she knew that the restorative powers of the cottage and the flower-bed had changed her, had claimed her for the forest, and that returning to her village would only bring sorrow. Her friends would see a mute girl; she herself would be alone in her communication, the only one able to hear and understand the deeper things of the trees and the dirt.

“The maiden, unperturbed by this knowledge, stretched herself out upon the bed of lilies and marigolds and let their petals tangle in her hair and let the creeping vines of the forest twine themselves with her fingers and toes. Her back was birch, strong and supple; her hips were river-stones and her legs were two straight saplings; her eyes became dewdrops full of moonlight; her smile was the white glitter of the moss that grows only in the deepest hidden dens of the forest, places not even the animals tread.

“And so the maiden became the forest and the forest became the maiden. And that, my friends, is the beginning of the great tale I wish to tell you—the prologue, as it were, the inciting bit of folklore to prepare you for the rest of the story, a morsel to whet the appetite but not fully satisfy. What do you think so far?”

“It’s wonderful,” said Thomas sincerely. Cathán squeaked in agreement.

“And it’s all true, every word of it,” replied the raven. “I’m thrilled you like it, though of course I had no doubts you would.” He looked pleased, and made a shuffling motion with his head that ruffled the feathers of his strong neck.

“Can we hear the rest of it?” Thomas asked.

“Certainly,” Avery said. “Except I haven’t thought up the rest yet. These things take time, you know, and you can’t predict their progress. Tales are very similar to the weather, in fact—and hark! the sky is starting to cry.”

Indeed it had just begun to rain. Thomas felt the first gentle splash of a droplet on his cheek. But when he raised his hands to wipe it away, he found that his cheek stung a little, as though rubbed roughly with cloth, and his fingertips were now stained silver. Another droplet struck the cedar-plank with a hiss and a puff of vapor, leaving behind another silvery residue.

“What is that?” Thomas cried, sitting upright. He worried for a sudden moment that Cathán would soar from his chest into the strea, having forgotten the little mouse in his fright; but the First Captain of the Thistledown Kingdom, ever agile, leapt free to stand upon the plank.

Cathán drew his tiny sword. “What new enemy have we now?” he shouted.

More droplets steamed onto the makeshift raft. Thomas’s arms started to sting as droplets of liquid silver caught them exposed. Avery flapped and hopped from one foot to another, but he too was caught by the strange raindrops, his glossy black feathers stained with silver splotches. Only Cathán had any hope of dodging the rain, and even he seemed to have a difficult time of it.

“To shore!” directed the Mouse Knight.

Thomas dunked both hands into the stream and began to paddle. The water was cold and soothing on his skin, washing away the silvery residue with every stroke. Luck had graced the three companions with a northerly wind that pushed them toward the nearest bank. In no time the cedar-plank bumped into the frondlike grasses and muddying soil of the shoreline. Its three passengers clambered ashore. Thomas grabbed one end of the plank, pulled it half onto the bank, collected his belongings, and hurried after Cathán, who was now darting through the underbrush toward heavier foliage.

Avery swooped low over Thomas’s head, sailed above the parting grasses that marked Cathán’s passing, and disappeared from sight with a loud squawk behind the enormous trunk of a gray-barked tree. Thomas rounded the trunk and saw a hollow in the tree where wood met soil: a natural hideaway formed of tangled roots and a split trunk and scratches in the dirt from small paws. Avery was already inside; Cathán stood on one of the roots to make sure Thomas knew where to go.

The boy felt rather ungainly trying to worm his way into the hollow, but he was exceedingly motivated by the increasing patter of scalding silvery droplets on his unprotected skin, and quickly he managed to burrow into the natural recess of the gray tree. Cathán followed, tugging at a few shaggy vines growing at the base of the tree to provide more cover over their little hideout. Then he leapt onto Thomas’s left shoulder.

“Well spotted, Avery,” said the Mouse Knight. “A dryoak shelter—very clever.”

Avery shook his feathers to free them from the last of the molten silver. “It was the obvious solution, of course.”

“What’s a dryoak?” Thomas asked.

Cathán made an expansive gesture with paws and tail. “This! It’s a living tree, despite what the color might tell you. A fabled tree, at that, and one that is rarely seen except in certain places of the woods and at times of heroic need, according to the stories. There’s always a hollow at the base formed by the roots and the trunk. Usually, like with this one, some small animals or other—perhaps shrews, in our case, judging from the signs—have excavated it further. Dryoaks are most hospitable to travelers and those in great need.”

“What’s wrong with the rain?” Thomas craned his neck to peer through the leaves and roots. Outside the dryoak, the silvery rain continued; he could hear splashes and sizzles as the liquid silver struck the ground and the surrounding vegetation, and every so often a trickle of silver dropped into the hollow to smolder on the ground.

“Seems like it’s made of silver,” Avery said in a muffled voice, his beak buried in his feathers to clean out the residue that still clung there.

Cathán poked one of the trickles with his sword and inspected it. “Aye,” said he. “Liquid silver. Perhaps an enchantment of some kind; perhaps just an anomaly. You never really know what to expect from the weather in these parts.”

The Mouse Knight clambered back up to Thomas’s shoulder and nestled in. “Nothing for it but to wait. I’m going to nap. Wake me if anything happens?”

Thomas nodded. He was a little confused, but he was also tired, and the hollow of the dryoak was warm and cozy and safe from the hot droplets of liquid silver rain. So he leaned his head back against the innermost roots of the tree and fell asleep.

#

When the silvery rain finally let up, Saturday afternoon had faded into Saturday evening, which was cooler and shadowier than either the morning or the afternoon had been. Saturday evening’s sky matched the color of the dryoak’s bark, and its gentle breezes were a bit more irritable as the day grew long.

Thomas awoke gently and blinked several times. He was curled up against the roots of the dryoak, Cathán warm upon his shoulder. Avery was perched on the lip of the hollow, peering out into the evening.

“Should be safe to leave now,” said the raven. “Rain’s dried up, it seems. Heaven’s forge has run out of molten silver.”

Thomas stretched his legs out. He rested them on something cold and lifted them to inspect it. It seemed the liquid silver had finally cooled and solidified into solid sheets along the edge of the hollow. Thomas scooted up to the edge and looked out. Everything was coated in a fine layering of cooled silver. What he could see of their surroundings sparkled and shimmered.

“Let’s go!” he exclaimed, gathering up his things. “I want to see what happened with the silver rain.”

“Aye,” said Cathán, holding Thomas’s ear for balance as the boy moved about, “and then we should be off toward your home before the day slips away any further.”

Thomas was dazzled by the scenery outside the dryoak. The leaves, the branches, the dirt, the stones: all covered in a patina of dried silver, like cobwebs on tombstones or the dust of a great storm, but sparkling. The landscape had become an eerie mirror in the half-light of fading Saturday. Thomas couldn’t tell whether he was amazed or unnerved or, perhaps, both. He stared as the silver landscape for a long while.

Then, gingerly, he strode forward over the silver-covered earth. The ground was slick. Fortunately, the silver rain had been quite localized; before long, he reached normal brown dirt again and loosened his tense muscles to walk more easily.

With a last glance at the sparkling patch of woods, Thomas turned toward his distant home and headed forward at a quick pace. Cathán rode upon his shoulder and Avery flew overhead. As they walked, the companions chatted quietly of this and that and whatever else.

Swiftly they reached the outskirts of Mídhel. Thomas’s heart ached a little as he saw the lighted lanterns marking the main streets of the town, the puffs of chimney-smoke wreathing the houses like gossamer crowns, the folded and stowed tents and coverings and awnings and stalls that had formerly lined the roadside. It’s good to be home again, even for just a little while, he thought.

Of course, Mídhel was not all asleep, not yet and not by far. In the distance, Thomas could both see and hear the roaring conviviality of a Saturday evening bonfire in the middle of town, a weekend tradition for many. He passed a few townsfolk as he walked toward his own home, nodding or waving to those he recognized. After encountering a seamstress who gave him an odd look as their paths diverged, Thomas decided that Cathán would be safer in his pocket. The Mouse Knight obliged without much argument.

A few streets later, Thomas realized that Avery was arousing similarly queer expressions from the townsfolk, and he could hardly blame them for their curiosity at the sight of a boy—a rather disheveled boy, certainly—with a raven perched on his shoulder. Thomas laughed a little to himself at the thought of suggesting Avery ride in his other pocket. Instead, he suggested that the raven fly overhead, not too close, and follow them home.

Avery puffed himself into a proud and haughty huff, but he too consented and winged away into the darkening day.

Thomas’s heart gave a leap at the sight of his home. Cheery yellow light filled both front windows; white smoke rose from the chimney in a languorous spiral. He could see shadows moving beyond the windows: his father, certainly, stuffing his pipe and reclining in front of the hearth, while his mother stirred a heavy pot of lamb stew and chided him for tracking mud into the house.

It was this last imagining that made Thomas stop short just as he reached for the doorknob. He drew back.

Avery, who had alighted upon the roof just above, chirped querulously at him.

Thomas looked up. “I can’t just go in,” he said quietly, stepping to the side of the door. “I’m filthy, for one thing. They’ll ask all kinds of questions. I don’t want to tell them about Eleanor, and I don’t want to get stuck here tonight. We’ll have to sneak in. I’ll grab what we need and leave them a note. They won’t be too worried as long as it seems like I’m out with friends or camping in the north field or something. Then we can be on our way to Palewater Bog.”

Cathán poked his head out of Thomas’s pocket. “Are you sure, noble Thomas?” the mouse asked with a squeak. “Wouldn’t you like to spend a few minutes with them first?’

Thomas bit his lip. “I’d love to,” he replied, and walked away from the door toward the corner of the house. “And I’d love to introduce you to them and them to you. I’m sure they’d love you both. And I’d love a hot meal and to sleep in my bed and—”

His voice almost broke. He swallowed and continued, rounding the corner of the house and headed toward the back window. “But I’m worried I’ll never leave again if I go in there,” he said, his voice stronger. “And I don’t want them to worry about Eleanor. I just need to get her back safely. Then we can all come home and relax and rejoice together. They’ll love you, but we need to wait until everyone’s home.”

Cathán gave him a small, consoling squeak, and then slipped back inside Thomas’s pocket.

Thomas reached the back window. It was rarely latched and led directly to the staircase without crossing through the kitchen or the front room, where his parents were. Thomas pressed his fingertips against the window and pushed on the glass.

It popped away from the frame with only the tiniest whisper. Still Thomas waited, listening carefully for any sound of alert. Certain that he hadn’t aroused suspicion, he hooked the window open and boosted himself over the sill and into the back room. He landed lightly, Cathán still in his pocket, Avery waiting outside for them to return with food and clothing and other provisions for the trek ahead.

Thomas, imagining himself lighter of foot than the quietest mouse in all the Thistledown Kingdom, crept toward the stairs in a crouch. He was halfway there when a shadow-shape suddenly reared before him, all spiky and distended, arms outstretched.

Thomas jumped, nearly yelped, a hundred thoughts of ghouls and the dullahan and worse monsters flooding his mind. Then he heard a voice that sent ice down the back of his neck:

“Trying to sneak out for the evening, Thomas? You know better than that! Back to bed with you!”

It was his mother. Thomas slowly turned to face her, his heart hammering in his chest. She lifted her small lantern up so that the light illuminated the whole room. Thomas saw her glance toward the hooked-open window, and he almost thought a smile crossed her face, but it was gone so quickly that he told himself he had just imagined it.

She turned back to him and gave him an appraising glance. “Filthy!” she pronounced without sharpness. “And you smell like three bonfires and a mud-wrestling tournament. I think you should stay home for a while. You’ve certainly had your fun with your friends. Your sister isn’t back yet, either. Have you seen her lately?”

Thomas couldn’t manage words and just shook his head.

“Ah, well,” his mother replied, taking the lantern in her left hand so she could reach out to herd Thomas up the stairs. “She’s off with her friends too, I’m sure, though I doubt she’s gotten as dirty as you. Where have you been—rolling around in a swamp?”

“Just . . . around,” Thomas replied, stepping into his room, knowing she didn’t really expect a full answer.

“Well, I want you to stay here for a good while and spend some time with us. And with your chores, of course. But you’ll need to clean up before dinner or we’ll not abide the smell. I’ll draw you a bath—get out of those filthy clothes and I’ll be back in a moment.”

His mother turned and started down the stairs, then fixed him with an over-the-shoulder look. “And Thomas,” she said sternly, “don’t you dare think about sneaking away tonight!”

Thomas waited until she was down the stairs and back in the front room, and then he sat on the edge of his bed and starting thinking about sneaking away.

Cathán crawled out of Thomas’s pocket and stood upon the boy’s knee. “That was your mother?” Cathán asked. “Lovely woman, she sounded. Very forthright.”

Thomas nodded. “She is lovely. And very sharp-eared, in my experience. We’ll have to be careful about sneaking out. I don’t think we can get some of the things I wanted—we’d have to walk right past her to grab the blankets and the food. At least I can get a change of clothes, though.”

Thomas set to undressing and putting on new trousers and woolen socks and a new earth-colored shirt. While Thomas dressed and tossed clothing and a scarf into his satchel, Cathán busied himself looking around the boy’s bedroom. Thomas caught glimpses of the Mouse Knight sniffing at his desk and running a paw along his windowsill and squeaking curiously at the sight of his small mirror.

“What’s this, Thomas?” Cathán said a moment later. He’d scampered up Thomas’s desk and was standing over a sheet of rough paper.

Thomas finished tidying his hair and slipped back into his jacket, then crossed the room. “Oh, that’s a drawing that Eleanor made for me,” he said, touching the page. “She’s not finished with it yet, but she wanted me to have it anyway. It’s a drawing of Mídhel. See, there’s my house, and there’s the village square, and down that way would be the woods between here and Luchamhá.”

“She has a great gift for artistry,” Cathán admired. “What’s that bit over there?”

Thomas looked closer. “Ah, that’s Briar’s Peak, the westernmost part of the Valley of Thistles.”

“Yes, of course,” Cathán said with a squeak. “My people call that mountain the Thornbush. It seems humans have a keen eye as well.”

“Well, we should go,” Thomas said, slinging his satchel over one shoulder. “Mother’s probably almost finished with the bath. We can slip back out the window and head around to the cellar door. My father has a few items there we can use as weapons—not much more than farming implements and horseshoes, but if we’re going to Palewater Bog, I want to be prepared.”

Thomas and Cathán crept back down the stairs and slipped out the window into the cooling Saturday evening air. The boy more than half expected to be snatched again by his mother; he breathed a sigh of relief at his successful escape, relatched the window, and made his way toward the cellar door on the other side of the house.

He’d just managed to open the door without a sound and take his first step down when spiky shadows shot up from his feet once more, dancing crazily. With another sigh—this one steeped in resignation and dismay—Thomas turned around to see his father standing before him on the grass, holding a lantern and puffing away on his pipe.

“Hello, Tom,” said his father, holding the lantern up. “Sneaking about in the dark with your friends, eh? All well and good, but let’s get you inside and cleaned up. Your mother’s got a stew simmering. Lamb and potatoes and a bit of that brown gravy we like so much. Come on now, up to your room.”

And thus Thomas found himself sitting on the edge of his bed once more, Cathán standing on his knee, no closer to collecting the provisions he would need for Palewater. He gave a sigh of defeat.

“I think we need a new plan,” Thomas told Cathán. “We can’t seem to take much from my house without my parents finding us. We’ll have to think of another way to get some blankets and food and weapons.”

Cathán tipped his head to one side with a quiver of his whiskers. “What about all that silver rain?” he suggested brightly. “We could go collect some of it, bring it back to town, and use it to barter with merchants for proper wares. I imagine we could outfit ourselves like true heroes here in Mídhel with a little silver, nay?”

A smile lit up Thomas’s glum countenance. “Aye, that’s a great idea! Quickly now, back into my pocket, and we’ll get out the window before anyone comes back to check on me.”

Thomas successfully snuck down the stairs and out the window without arousing suspicion. He even managed to snatch another apple before departing, a much-needed snack. After conferring briefly with Avery, the three companions reversed their steps and headed back toward the south woods outside Mídhel to gather up silver for the journey ahead.

#

The silver was gone, but the trees were still glowing when Thomas and Avery and Cathán returned to the dryoak.

The woods were glowing with fairy-light.

Little puffs of light, like wisps of dandelions or discarded cotton from pillow-stuffing, floated through the trees, pulsing red and yellow and white. They floated as though windswept, erratic and capricious; but upon closer inspection, Thomas thought he could see small figures inside the balls of light, little creatures with bright eyes and sharp gleaming teeth. He backed away.

A fluttery sound like laughter or bats’ wings rippled through the grove. Cathán drew his sword. Avery took refuge on a branch above Thomas’s head. The raven snapped at a fairy-light that drew too close; it sped away and disappeared behind another tree.

The trees all glowed with the fey lights of the floating fairies. The changing of hues marked shifts from fanciful to ethereal to menacing. Thomas was at once entranced and spooked by the scene. He stuffed his hands into his trouser-pockets and set himself firmly while Cathán advanced toward the dryoak.

“Ho there, fairies of the woods!” cried the brave Mouse Knight, brandishing his weapon without malice. “We have returned for the spoils of a strange meteorological event that left drying plates of silver upon every surface in this region. We have a mighty need of this boon, for we are engaged in battle against a monstrous foe. What have you done with the silver?”

A peal of laughter echoed through the trees, and the lights changed from yellow to a pale pink. “There were no markers on the metal,” said a voice, or possibly many voices at once; Thomas could neither pinpoint their origin nor even be sure he had actually heard them. But the puffs of light, still floating aimlessly around them and through the leaves and tree-branches, vibrated with each word.

“How are we to know that you are not thieves?” came the fairy-voice again. “We have claimed what we have found here. The hoard of metal is ours, safely put away.”

“Can we bargain you for it?” asked Thomas. “Trade you something of value?”

“Oh yes,” said the fairy-voice. One of the puffs, now glowing green, hovered close to his face. “That nose looks like the perfect trade for some of the flat pieces of metal. Will you trade us your nose?”

Thomas backed away.

The fairy-light didn’t follow, but the color changed from green to gold, and more laughter filled the grove. “Not a fair trade, then? But shall we just bite the nose off anyway? What do we care for fairness?”

“Fiends!” shouted Cathán, now swinging his sword with real intent.

The fairy-lights hummed and laughed again. “Mice are not such good morsels. But their bones are crunchy and light. Perhaps we will eat them too.”

Thomas had a fleeting image cross his mind: swarms of the multihued fairy-lights descending on them, chewing off his nose, eating Cathán and Avery, munching on their bones, leaving behind an acorn shield and the boy’s satchel and a single glossy feather, black but glowing red in the light of the fairies.

He clenched his right hand into a fist. Below, on the ground, Cathán readied sword and shield, spinning wildly to face the floating balls of light, tail lashing back and forth.

But it was Avery who intervened and forestalled the chomping of the sharp, sharp teeth of the fairies. “You are keen and clever things,” said the raven, his voice melodious and charming. “You are clearly possessed of impeccable taste. You choose the brightest colors to surround yourselves with and the finest groups of trees for your gatherings. And you have, of course, claimed from the earth and trees what, to your knowledge, had no markings identifying its owner, and thus you have rightfully asked whether we might trade something of value for that which we seek.

“We’d very much like to keep our noses and bones,” continued Avery, “and indeed all the parts of us. But perhaps there is something else to your entertainment or satisfaction we can offer? We are not without talents of our own, meager though perhaps some of them may be.”

The fairy-lights made a buzzing noise and seemed to consider this proposition. Then their voice, or voices, spoke again, and the balls of light became orange and red in color: “Entertainment, yes; that would please us nicely. We require entertainment from each of you. A song, yes, and a dance, and then perhaps a trick of your own. And if we are impressed, we will give you some of the cold metal.”

“Most gracious,” said Avery. “Allow us a moment to confer.”

He dropped down to Thomas’s right shoulder. Cathán scampered up to Thomas’s left shoulder. Quickly the three discussed; then, their best plan formed, and Thomas not without some trepidation, they disbanded and delivered their offering to the fairy-lights.

First, Cathán sang. It was a lovely song, cheery and warm, full of descriptions of battles and noble sacrifices and much feasting. The Mouse Knight’s voice was high and a bit squeaky; he had confessed to Thomas and Avery that his passion for singing outstripped his talent. But it was nonetheless a good song made better by enthusiasm.

When Cathán finished, he gave the fairies a bow, ducking his head to the earth and lifting his tail high into the air. The fairies buzzed, their lights flashing yellow and silver in the twilight, which Thomas took as a sign of approval. He smiled and clapped for Cathán, then stepped forward for his own part.

He felt a surprising knot of tension in his stomach, and his palms were beginning to sweat, just a little. It was surprising because he had faced far worse in previous days than this. Even being caught by his mother, and then by his father, had provoked more of a fright. But something about an impromptu jig for a cluster of fairies in the middle of the woods gave him a dry mouth and a bit of a twitch in his right eye.

Thomas danced. It was simple and without music, and he felt, both during and after, that it lacked much of the grace and sophisticated that good dancing wanted; he was also concerned that he looked rather silly, and that his discomfort with his own performance was evident on his face. But still he danced, recalling passing performers and the weekly dancing at bonfires and his mother and father near the hearth after dinner.

He finished his jig. The fairies buzzed and their lights turned gold and green. He felt a strange sense of exhilaration at having done it, a sense not only of accomplishment but also of pride. He grinned at Cathán and stepped back.

Avery performed his trick. It was a good one: The bird began on the ground, flapping hard, rising slowly a few feet into the air. Then he sneezed—Thomas hadn’t thought birds could sneeze, and indeed it sounded tinny and a little forced—and simply burst! into a shower of feathers and dust. These floated back to the ground, collecting in a small pile on the glowing soil.

A sudden squawk and a laugh sounded from the trees overhead, and then a black form hurtled down to the ground. Avery landed with a thump, stretching his impressive glossy wings to their full span, standing upon the remains of his seeming demise. He bowed, long and slow.

The fairies buzzed louder and louder, their light-puffs vibrating and rapidly shifting from one color to the next. It was a hypnotic sight.

“Acceptable,” the fairy-voice pronounced. The lights faded uniformly into a dull blue, in which Thomas could see again the flash of sharp teeth and luminous eyes. They moved together, collecting into a mass above the dryoak. “You may take some of the metal. It is inside. We will even let you keep your noses and bones this time.”

Hurriedly, Thomas and Cathán and Avery crowded into the shelter of the dryoak, where they found odd shapes of glinting silver piled up haphazardly. The silver had apparently been stripped from where it dried; Thomas recognized the outline of branches and leaves and small pebbles. He scooped up an armful and dumped the silver into his satchel, then stuffed his pockets. Cathán and Avery each took a few pieces, no more than they could comfortably carry.

The three exited the dryoak. The fairy-lights bobbed above them, blue and green, giving the trees a watery glow. “But such a fine nose for eating,” the fairy-voice said as Thomas pulled himself from the dryoak. “Are you sure you don’t want to trade it?”

“Thank you for the silver,” Cathán told the fairies, politely but a little curtly. “Goodbye.”

They proceeded from the trees. Scarcely had the glow faded behind them when all three of them broke into a madcap flight—Avery flapping hard above them, Thomas running with all his energy, Cathán scampering and scurrying in the underbrush.

The fairy-lights didn’t seem to follow, but just to be sure, the three companions kept running until they saw the lights of Mídhel up ahead. Then they collapsed in a heap at the side of the road and heaved great breaths and let the cool night air undo the heated sweat of their escape.

When he had recovered enough, Thomas rolled over onto his side. “We can head to Alice’s Apothecary,” he said. “If we hurry, she’ll still have the shop open. She sells herbs mostly, but she’ll also have some food and other provisions. And she can’t see very well, and her memory is going, so she likely won’t be bothered by a boy and a mouse and a raven buying things for an adventure on a Saturday night. But is it safe to go to Palewater Bog at night? I’ve heard stories that it’s even worse than the Grimgrove.”

“Aye,” said Cathán, “as have I. We’ll want to get close to the bog and then camp somewhere safe, so we can set off at dawn. Is there any place in Mídhel we can stay the night? some quiet den or nook?”

Thomas thought a moment. “The downs,” he said, “up near the North Road, on the edge of town. There are a few good hillsides where we can make a little camp for the night.”

Avery and Cathán agreed. They waited there a few minutes longer to rest. Then, brushing dust and leaves from feathers and fur and arms, the bird and the mouse and the boy headed off through Mídhel at twilight, heading from a strange circle of fairy-lights toward the sinister depths of Palewater Bog.