THE BLACKBERRY WITCH: chapter 20

All chapters of The Blackberry Witch

XX. Daylight

“I don’t know much about human burials,” Cathán was saying from his perch on Thomas’s shoulder, “but that’s what I thought it looked like. Your people are typically wrapped up and placed in the ground or under some stones, aren’t they? Big piles of rocks?”

“Cairns,” Thomas replied. He was crouched before Sir Elbarion’s bones, gently prying some of the yellow-green lichen away from the knight’s ribs.

“Ah,” replied Cathán. “Yes. A cairn. Anyway, friend Thomas, you looked all wrapped up like you were prepared to be buried, but—well, I can’t quite explain it, but I wasn’t too worried about you. You looked . . . peaceful, I suppose. Like you didn’t mind being there. You weren’t struggling at all. I kept watch,” the Mouse Knight added helpfully. “Just in case. But you were only wrapped up for a few seconds.”

“Sir Elbarion said time was different inside the shroud,” Thomas said, finally pulling free a tuft of lichen as big as his fist. “I was frightened at first, but he was kind. Lonely, too. I might come back to visit him when this is all over.”

The water surrounding the dais trembled a little, and Thomas thought he could hear a dog’s howl from beyond the tomb. The sound urged him into motion. He stuffed the lichen into the bottom of his satchel, slung it over his shoulders, and straightened, looking down at the knight’s skeleton.

“He told me to take the sword,” Thomas said. “He said it would help lead us out of the bog. I hope he didn’t intend me to use it against the changeling. I’m willing to fight monsters, but he looks a little too human still.”

“Aye,” said Cathán, patting Thomas on the ear. “But perhaps it shan’t come to that. I think we can still outsmart him. And the sirens are confined to the water, I think, so they’ll be easy enough to avoid. The dog might give us some trouble. Perhaps he can be reasoned with.”

Thomas took a deep breath, then reached out and carefully eased the sword out of the skeleton’s grip. It slid free without difficulty. It was lighter than he’d expected.

“A true hero now in visage as you ever were in heart,” Cathán proclaimed. “It’s a weapon befitting your noble carriage, at least while we traverse this treacherous bog.”

“I wish I had a sheath for it,” Thomas muttered; but he was glad for the weapon, if only for the sense of security it gave. It was enchanted, after all.

Thomas crossed through the water and returned to the entrance of the tomb. He could hear the sounds of a scuffle somewhere outside, closer than they had been before he went into the shroud. He looked back at the skeleton.

“Farewell for now, Sir Elbarion,” Thomas said, raising a hand. He felt Cathán’s whiskers twitch against his neck.

Thomas turned from the tomb and stepped back into the hallway. Without torchlight to show the way, the passage was dark and filled with thick fog. The sword in Thomas’s hand gave off a faint glow, its light the palest green flecked with gold. It didn’t burn away the fog, nor even cut through it, but it was enough for Thomas to stumble forward and reach the end of the hallway and a gap in the ceiling that showed the sky.

Using the hazy yellow hanging over the bog to guide him, Thomas quickly made his way through the hallways toward more open ground. He was following the sounds of the scuffle, straining his ears for anything to indicate Avery was alive amid the barks and gravesong and other unidentified commotion. After a minute, he turned to meet Cathán’s eyes.

“Does that sound,” Thomas asked slowly, “like a lot of birds?”

“Aye,” replied the Mouse Knight, whiskers twitching. He sniffed the air. “Smells like them too. Hundreds. Flocks and flocks of them. Feathers and beaks and talons and screeching and all the rest. But that can’t be right, unless Saf the changeling boy has summoned more foul allies to hunt us. Among all bird-kind, I think only Avery is brave enough to enter the bog this deep.”

Thomas continued on. After a few minutes, with the sounds of birds growing ever louder, he stepped into a courtyard that opened onto the rest of the castle grounds, its walls and archways strewn about the ground so that the whole of the pale yellow sky was before them.

Thomas stopped at once and stared.

“Hundreds of birds,” he said to Cathán, gazing upward.

They filled the sky over the courtyard, their sleek bodies dark silhouettes against the yellow haze. There were hundreds of them, all ravens like Avery, but black and white and blue and even yellow, with white markings around their eyes and longer tail-feathers. They flew through the air above the castle ruins in a mad rush; not a one had stopped to roost in the remaining walls of the courtyard or forage for an afternoon snack in the trampled, dying grass. Instead they flapped and swooped and dived and soared in mad coordination, a storm of ravens come to Palewater Bog.

The noise of the birds was somewhat alarming. They squawked and flapped and chittered and sang; and while for the moment they seemed focused on other business, Thomas realized for the first time the primal fear of facing a large group of very angry birds. He’d experienced a fragment of this feeling during his time with the golden eagles, and he’d certainly seen a wild ferocity in Avery’s eyes on several occasions. But this was different, and the sword of Sir Elbarion grew a little heavier in his hands as he stared at the feathery cloud overhead.

Picking out Avery in this mess was impossible for Thomas, so he turned to Cathán. The First Captain of the Thistledown Kingdom lifted his mousy nose to the air, sniffed a few times, cleaned his whiskers with his paws, sniffed again, and then batted his tail against Thomas’s neck.

“Follow me,” said Cathán, leaping from Thomas’s shoulder. The Mouse Knight scampered forward across the courtyard. Thomas followed.

He had to duck once or twice to avoid a low-flying bird, and with every step his heart quailed in his chest, but Thomas survived the run to the other side of the courtyard. It seemed that the birds were truly unconcerned with the human boy carrying a sword and the Mouse Knight, at least for the present. Thomas was both relieved and worried that, although he could hear laughter and howling and the drumming sound of the gravesong echoing through the ruins, he and Cathán had not yet encountered the changeling, the dog Elwood, or the sirens.

They came to the other end of the courtyard and found Avery in the crook of a broken statue’s arms. The raven’s eyes were closed and his glossy wings were ruffled, a few bent out of shape, dust and grime making him blend in a little more with the statue and the yellow air of the ruins. Cathán ran up the side of the statue and slid down an arm to land just above Avery. Thomas leaned in close.

He could see at once that Avery was breathing—and also that Avery was clearly hurt, for a spot of fresh blood had trickled down the statue’s arms, and the feathers at the raven’s chest were puffed out and tangled. Thomas swallowed hard and reached out to run his finger lightly over the bird’s back. The feathers there were gritty with dirt. Thomas lifted his finger to touch Avery’s head, which rested on the statue’s upturned palm.

“Hey!” said Avery in a raspy voice.

It startled Thomas and Cathán both. Cathán let out a squeak that appeared to immediately embarrass him; Thomas jerked backward, and the sword of Sir Elbarion wavered in his grip.

“Heh,” said Avery. The raven opened one eye, blinking furiously, and then opened the other, raising his head off the statue’s palm. “Thought I was dead, did you? Alberich Sharpbeak, famed hero and warrior of the Blackhill Clan, felled by some shape-shifting boy and a mangy dog and a few slimy water-witches? I can’t believe you’d think that for a moment. Of course, I’m also a masterful actor with a sharp intuition for disguise and pretend, so I’m actually not surprised at all that you failed to see the truth. My own mother and sister would have thought me dead as well! But you two should have known better, having witnessed firsthand my valiant deeds.”

A smile fought with Thomas’s worried expression. “I’m glad you’re alive, Avery,” he said.

“Aye, true companion,” echoed Cathán, patting the raven on the head. “You’ve clearly held your ground against Saf and his friends.”

“Of course I have.” Avery shifted a little, holding himself up, though he still leaned into the statue’s arm for support. “You’ve gathered a talon for yourself, I see, human Thomas,” he added, nodding at the sword in Thomas’s hand. “Have you found that decorative bit of moss you wanted?”

Thomas laid a hand on his satchel. “Yes. And the sword will show us the way out of the bog, I think. But what about all these birds?”

Avery shifted again, beating one wing to hop up onto his feet. He made a noise that sounded like a birdlike wince. “I believe I may have some trouble flying like my companions up there,” he said, pointing at the cloud of birds still swirling above the ruins. “I did all my graceful drops and climbs while you were scavenging for forest-growth. They’re now trying desperately to imitate me. Anyway, I wonder if I might have a ride. The mouse makes it look so delightful. But I also have sore talons—from rending and tearing the flesh of my enemies, you understand, and hurling stones at their fleeing backs after utter defeat—so perhaps inside the satchel with the plants you collected?”

Thomas opened his satchel and held it up. Avery hopped from the statute to Thomas’s hand, and the boy could feel Avery’s trembling talons and the shudder running through his whole body. Overall, the raven was less injured than Thomas had feared but more than his attitude suggested. Thomas carefully positioned the raven inside the satchel, letting him nestle up on the lichen and other parcels therein so that Avery’s head poked out of the top of the satchel. Thomas slung the bag around his shoulders again, keeping it resting at his hip so that Avery could look both forward and back.

“Let’s find somewhere safer to rest another moment,” suggested Cathán.

They raced back across the courtyard and ducked inside an alcove with a bench just wide enough for Thomas to sit on. He set the sword down at his feet and held the satchel in his lap. Avery seemed comfortable inside the satchel; and though Thomas would never say as much to anyone, he noticed that the raven looked rather relieved to be worried about, and also somewhat comical with just his head poking out.

“So, the birds,” Thomas said.

“Yes, yes, that mad-flying squawk of birds up there,” Avery said, swiveling around to look up at Thomas and Cathán. “You see, I’ve attained such depths of humility as to know clearly when I should share glory with others, especially with those less fortunate than I. The downtrodden, I suppose. They’re such fragile things, those birds. But brave warriors to answer the call, I’d imagine, though not brave enough to have already come to the castle ruins with us at the first.”

“You called them here, then?” asked Cathán. “It must have been a mighty call to pull them from outside the bog.”

“Indeed it was, my friend: a loud and invigorating summons to come and fight and win!” Avery clacked his beak. “But actually these birds were quite close already. In the bog, in fact. They were blown off their course by a westerly wind and were looking for some food. I suppose I’ll have to point them in the right direction when this is all done. Poor wayward things. But yes, they came quickly at my invitation, and they’ve riled up that changeling thing and his friends into such a state. His skin must be half pecked off by now.”

That was a gruesome thought, and Thomas spoke to try to banish it: “So they’re helping us fight him?”

“Yes, for the moment,” Avery replied. He dipped his beak into the satchel, withdrew a small stone that had been stuck to his blood-matted feathers, and spat it away. “They’re not Blackhill, so I didn’t expect too much from them, but they’re friendly enough and competent. Perhaps as talented as the most lauded Mouse Knight of the Thistledown Kingdom, or as whatever heroes your people sing songs about, Thomas. That is to say: they’re average birds, nothing altogether special—some aren’t even ravens!—but they’re handy allies nonetheless. I think, though, that they’re leaving soon. They mentioned something about seeking a warmer climate somewhere north of the bog. Not very bright, perhaps, but loyal in helping us. They’ve proven a valuable distraction, no?”

“They have,” Thomas replied, and he stroked the silky feathers at the back of Avery’s head. The bird shivered but seemed pleased. “Thank you for your help. We couldn’t have escaped the changeling without you.”

“Aye, but we’re not free yet,” Cathán reminded them. “And Avery spoke true. Look! the birds are thinning out, flying away.”

Thomas glanced out into the courtyard. The maelstrom of birds was calming as more and more birds flew into the air and disappeared into the yellow haze of the bog. The feathery sounds of their frantic flight were gradually, steadily replaced by the thrum of the gravesong. To Thomas’s ears, it sounded more insistent, more violent. Hungrier.

“Where’s Saf now?” Thomas asked.

Avery gestured with his beak. “Over there somewhere, where the feathers and dust are thickest. I think we pushed him out of the courtyard, but he’s not far tangled in the hallways on the other side. And I can hear that Elwood barking but I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“We should hurry, then,” Thomas said. He stood. After making sure his companions and belongings were set, he started off at a jog through the hallway just outside the alcove, angling away from the courtyard.

The gravesong grew louder as he ran, but Thomas supposed that was a good thing, as it meant they were nearing the brackish watery moat that surrounded the castle ruins. They followed Cathán’s nose and Avery’s shouted directions for the first few minutes, until the ruins became twisted enough that neither mouse nor raven could determine the proper direction.

Thomas held up the sword of Sir Elbarion. He looked at his reflection in the naked blade. The boy staring back was covered in grime and sweat. Not knowing what else to do, Thomas inclined his head toward the sword and said, “Please show us the way out.”

The sword glowed in response. The glow was mellow and soft, pale green with flecks of gold, and it seemed to cast away the haze of the bog that hung thickly to Thomas’s clothes and hair. Thomas breathed a little easier then. He felt something tugging at his hand, as though the sword itself was trying to lead him along. It was a subtle sensation, easily overlooked, and Thomas steadied his breathing and firmed his grip on the sword’s hilt in order to properly discern its suggestions.

“This way,” he said after a moment.

The words came none too soon—a heartbeat later, Thomas heard laughter and snarling in his ears, the ragged sounds of the changeling boy Saf coming from very close behind him. Thomas gulped and bolted.

The way through the ruins was treacherous. Cathán held onto Thomas’s shoulder with his little mouse paws, and Thomas kept his free hand on the satchel to avoid jostling Avery too much, but he feared both his companions would be shaken senseless by the time they reached the castle’s outer walls. Thomas himself tripped once or twice, his shoes snagged by crumbling rocks or the rotted remains of doors and barrels, but he managed to keep from falling and to avoid losing hold of the sword.

At last they broke from end of the ruined buildings and came to a flat stretch of yellow grass before the outer walls that separated the castle from the rest of Palewater Bog. Thomas found his speed in the empty field, racing wildly for the sagging gate that promised escape from his pursuer—for he knew the changeling was close behind; Thomas could hear Saf’s angry shouts and promises of death and vengeance, could feel the pounding footfalls as the changeling ran after them.

Thomas came to an abrupt stop only a dozen feet from the gate. From the matted tussocks and tangled grasses rose the shaggy figure of Elwood, Saf’s canine companion.

The dog did not looked as pleased to see them as he had before, in the early hours of the morning. Elwood growled instead, baring long teeth, hackles prickling and tail flat. Thomas lowered the sword until the tip touched the withered earth, but he kept his wary gaze on the dog.

For a long moment neither party moved. Then Elwood took a step forward and let out a single bark, just as Thomas heard a rasping voice behind him say: “Easy now, Tom, or not even your skin will make it out of here.”

Thomas swallowed.

“I’ll watch the dog,” Avery said quietly from the satchel. “You deal with the changeling.”

Thomas turned around to face Saf. The boy stood a few feet away. He wore still the guise of a human youth, but his skin was ragged and bloody in a dozen places, the marks of hundreds of beaks and talons pressed into his stolen mask of flesh. He wasn’t smiling, but his lips were pulled back in a rictus that showed his white teeth.

“I’ll enjoy this very much, Tom,” Saf said, wiping blood from his mouth with a shirt-sleeve. “I’m going to feed your bird to Elwood, and I’ll eat the mouse myself—you’ve worked me into a hunger like I’ve rarely felt. And then I’ll strip your skin off and toss the rest to the sirens. They’ll sink your bones down into the depths of the bog. Your blood will feed Palewater, give it strength enough to stretch its greedy yellow fingers toward that little village to the south. And I’ll walk before the living bog, wearing your skin, and I’ll take Mídhel for myself.” Saf spat blood onto the yellow grass. “When I’m done, the bog can have the bones of the village too.”

“We’ll escape,” Thomas said. He felt very unsure of himself, and he knew Saf could hear it.

The changeling boy didn’t laugh. There was no humor left in him, no sardonic mirth, no repartee. He simply bared his teeth again. “I am going to kill you, Tom, and there won’t be anything left. You’re trapped in here with me. If you try to run, Elwood will stop you. If you make it past the dog, you’ll have to contend with the sirens—and they’re nearly as furious now as I am. Can’t you hear their song? They’re waiting, Tom. Let’s not put this off any longer.”

Saf took a step toward Thomas.

Thomas raised the sword of Sir Elbarion in response. Saf’s eyes turned to the sword and then back to Thomas’s. The changeling boy’s eyes were crimson, almost black. “Foolish mortal wretch,” Saf said, in a voice too deep to belong to a boy or a human: a voice full of knives and jagged stones, a voice like tree-limbs breaking in the snow.

Thomas felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his back. He heard Cathán let out a tiny squeak that sounded involuntary. Avery was shaking in the satchel slung over Thomas’s back. Thomas took his own step forward.

As he moved closer, he noticed something on the changeling boy’s wrist—a leather band with a gold emblem on it, a marking Thomas couldn’t perceive at a distance. Something in the sword tugged at Thomas again, an inkling or a premonition perhaps, a feeling that suggested the leather band was not merely decoration. It’s the best idea I’ve got, Thomas decided, screwing up the last of his courage into a tight knot in his chest.

He leapt forward with the sword of Sir Elbarion held high.

Quick as death responded the changeling, jumping to meet Thomas across the trampled yellow grass. Long silver claws burst from Saf’s hands, ripping through the skin like fast-growing roots, twice the length of any human’s fingers and curved to points that glinted in the hazy light.

Saf’s attack was faster than Thomas’s; the changeling swung with claws extended. Thomas barely had time to bring the sword of Sir Elbarion around, parrying the claws with a jolt that shuddered through his whole body. The changeling was batted away with a snarl. Thomas felt like dropping the sword, but he clenched it tight in both fists.

A tiny whistling noise twanged in Thomas’s ear. A moment later, the changeling howled in wordless anger and clapped his clawed hands to his right eye. Two great droplets of blood trickled between the claws, staining their silver. Leaping from Thomas’s left shoulder to the ground at his feet, Cathán nocked and loosed another dart; this one sank home in the changeling’s other cheek, eliciting a fiercer cry.

Thomas seized this brief opportunity. He jumped forward again, praying that the sword of Sir Elbarion was as gentle as it was true. The tip of the sword sliced cleanly through the leather band on the changeling’s wrist without blemishing the skin on either side. The band fell away—and puffed into thick smoke before it reached the ground.

Thomas stepped closer and pushed the changeling boy. Saf fell backward, still holding his bleeding eyes, his shouts of pain and anger more desperate now. The changeling was trying in vain to pluck the darts free with his silvery claws.

Behind Thomas, Elwood let out a sharp, full-throated howl. “Thomas,” said Avery urgently, “turn to the dog!”

Thomas spun around. Elwood remained at the gate of the ruins, raised to his full height, watching them, tail still. Thomas gave it only a moment’s thought and then ran toward the shaggy dog. When he was within a few feet, he stopped and bent his head down, holding out his free hand with the palm toward the dog.

Elwood looked at the hand, growled, and bared his teeth.

But Thomas saw something in the dog’s eyes, just a hint of a question. The boy set aside the sword of Sir Elbarion and extended his other hand, crouching down a little so that his head was level with the dog’s.

“I’m not your enemy, Elwood,” said Thomas kindly.

Elwood cocked his head, sniffed at Thomas’s hand. Tentatively, as though expecting a trick or a trap or some swift reprimand, the dog nuzzled his cold wet nose into Thomas’s palm. When Thomas smiled at the dog, Elwood responded with a long lick of his rough tongue that was longer than Thomas’s hand from wrist to fingertip.

The boy from Mídhel laughed. It was a clear sound and honest, so different from the still-throbbing gravesong of the sirens and the pained cries of the changeling that for a moment the sun seemed to pierce the hazy heavens and turn the sickly yellow of Palewater Bog to true gold. It was only an illusion, but the feeling was true all the same.

Elwood withdrew his cold nose and panted back at Thomas, his shaggy mouth parting to resemble a smile. He wagged his floppy tail; it brushed the edges of the yellowing grass.

Thomas glanced over his shoulder and called Cathán over. Saf the changeling remained on the ground, still fumbling with the darts in his eyes, apparently so weakened by the loss of the leather band that he was unable to rise. Cathán the Mouse Knight came at once, jumping from the ground to Thomas’s shoulder and then leaping onto Elwood’s head with a tiny merry squeak of delight. The dog barked, and this time it was cheerful, welcoming.

“Elwood, you’re free now,” Thomas said. He wasn’t sure how much hold the changeling had had over the dog, but it was clear that Elwood was pleased to have avoided a confrontation and was willing to let them pass. “If you’d like, you can come with us. We’re leaving the bog behind, going back out into the bright world beyond. You can accompany us as long as you wish.”

Elwood barked again, and his tail beat harder. “He says he’ll come,” Cathán translated unnecessarily. The Mouse Knight seemed well pleased. Avery too made a chirping noise that sounded like approval.

Thomas grinned. “Let’s get moving, then.”

They made their way through the crumbling gate and left the castle ruins behind. Saf’s cries faded as the small party hurried through the hazy, foggy, squelching bog. The gravesong was loudest now, a cacophony on all sides, and through breaks in the fog Thomas saw the flashing needle-teeth of the sirens. He jogged on as quickly as he could manage in the treacherous bog.

Elwood’s nose and the tugging sensation within the sword of Sir Elbarion led them steadily on. Whenever their path led them onto softer ground and too close to the sirens, Thomas flashed the sword toward them. The sirens recoiled from its soft glow with shrieks and shielding hands.

The enchanted sword led them true. Before too long, Thomas could see patches of green ahead, and for a moment his nose caught the scent of wildflowers and hay. His heart leapt and he ran harder, though he could barely keep up with Elwood’s loping strides. The gravesong had faded now to almost nothing as they outpaced the sirens and came closer to the light of day.

Then, almost of a sudden, Thomas and his companions stepped beyond the borders of Palewater Bog and reentered the world. The dawn-light of Monday flooded his vision, bringing tears to his eyes as he squinted and shaded them with a grimy hand. Before him stretched rolling hills of green grass dotted with trees and low shrubs. The sky was gold and blue and scudded with wispy white clouds. Birds chirped; a bumblebee, fat and slow, buzzed past Thomas’s head. Due south, beyond the rolling hills, a curl of smoke marked the start of Mídhel.

Thomas laughed. His friends joined him in his relief, with Elwood barking and turning circles on the rich brown earth, wagging his tail with such ferocity that it jerked his whole body from side to side.

Thomas felt another tug in the pit of his stomach. He looked down at the sword in his hand. Its blade-glow had faded, and it seemed to want to return to the hazy bog behind them. Thomas remembered Sir Elbarion’s instructions.

With a wordless expression of thanks to both knight and blade, Thomas tossed the enchanted sword in the direction of the bog. It vanished before it hit the ground. Thomas gave Palewater Bog one last look. Then he turned away and let his eyes drink in the sight of the fair green land before him and felt a smile stretch his face until his cheeks hurt.

The daylight was warm upon his face, the air was clean in his lungs, his companions—new and old—were safe and well, and within his satchel were three of the four objects he needed to save his sister and restore peace.