Lost & Found Page 2

  You will find Great Eagle spreading those golden wings of his far and wide across this world – from the lectern that holds the Bishop’s Bible to the coat of arms of Kings, to the sign that swings above the inn to welcome you. But if you ever find yourself lost on a twisting path in the forest, in need of some cleverness and courage and a clear, sweet song to set you on your way, you would do well to seek out Little Jenny Wren.

  THE RIDDLES OF THE CROSSROADS

  Jack was sitting on the back step of his Old Mother’s cottage staring out at the far horizon, waiting for his Fate to come over the hill to claim him.

  He had dreamed it out in many directions, the way his story might unfold. He could do a favour for a passing tinker and he’d get a purse brimming with silver coins for his trouble. A magic purse, no less, that would never run empty. Or he would save the honour of a wandering Princess. Then she’d fall in love with him and take him back to her father’s castle and they’d be wed. Or perhaps a club-footed, iron-toothed troll, all hair and fists, would come hurtling out of the hillside and run rampage through the valley. Jack would defeat the fierce invader and he’d be a Hero of the Land.

  The more days that passed without incident or opportunity, the more restless Jack got. So one morning he took his Old Mother’s freshly baked loaf from the top of the stove and he went to see the Henwife. They broke bread together and he told her of his plight.

  ‘There’s a tale of a man who finds gold in his own backyard,’ she said. ‘But his name is not Jack.’

  Jack thought of how wide the world was, and how little of it he knew.

  ‘I’ve no fear of adventure,’ he said. ‘But I’m in sore need of advice and direction.’

  ‘Fate waits for us all at the same spot,’ said the Henwife. ‘Where North, South, East and West meet.’

  Jack kissed his Old Mother farewell and set out on the long roads.

  He walked and he walked, sleeping in hedges and ditches, sharing food and fire with the tinkers, the merchants and the men who were down on their luck. They all traded their tales between them, to ease the long journey.

  Each time Jack asked for direction to assist him upon his own particular adventure he was given the same reply. The man who sets out on the promise of a Henwife’s riddle is as foolish as he is innocent. Jack should go back the way he came and be content with the life he’s got. Better that than to waste his years searching for a place that’s not to be found on any map of this world.

  Still, Jack walked on.

  Until one day he came to a crossroads with a signpost set in the centre, cutting up the clouds like a compass. Leaning against it was a tall, thin Gentleman, dressed in a long dark coat. He had a fiddle tucked under his arm and a black hat upon his head that put Jack in mind of the stovepipe in his Old Mother’s kitchen.

  ‘Kind Sir,’ Jack said, ‘may I trouble you with a question?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said the Gentleman. ‘Is it a great question or a lesser one?’

  Jack thought of all the folk that he had met upon his travels and how not one of them had been able to offer him an answer.

  ‘I suppose it must be a great question,’ said Jack. ‘The rest of my life depends upon it.’

  ‘Then I would be happy to assist you,’ said the Gentleman. ‘All I ask in return for a true answer is that you pay me back in kind. Nine lesser questions of my own, set against the singular greatness of yours.’

  They shook upon the agreement.

  The Gentleman had a firm grip. His nails were long and filed to a point.

  ‘Then tell me true,’ said Jack, ‘where is the place that North, South, East and West meet?’

  The Gentleman took the bow of his fiddle and drew a perfect circle in the dirt around where Jack stood.

  ‘Simple, my friend. Where else but beneath your own feet?’

  Jack laughed, and then he stopped.

  He was stuck fast, frozen inside that circle.

  Then he understood the nature of the Fate that he had met, and his blood ran cold.

  The Gentleman turned and whispered in Jack’s ear.

  ‘Now as you did swear to me,

  Answer my questions, three times three.

  If you cannot tell true these nine,

  Then your very soul be mine.’

  Then he tucked his fiddle beneath his chin, struck up a tune and sang.

  ‘What is taller than the tree?

  And what is deeper than the sea?

  What is sharper than the thorn?

  And what is louder than the horn?

  What is greener than the grass?

  And what is smoother than the glass?

  What is longer than the winding way?

  And what is colder than earth’s clay?

  And what is there, seen, told or heard,

  More dreadful than the witch’s words?’

  Jack looked into the Gentleman’s eyes. They were as black as pitch.

  And there he saw the world unfold accordingly.

  There was a forest, set beside a deep blue sea. The floor of that forest was tangled with thornbushes.

  There came a King on a noble steed, blowing upon a hunting horn as he vaulted the brambles. Then the King and his huntsmen were returning victorious, dragging a black boar across the verdant lawns of the castle grounds.

  A fine feast followed, with toasts raised in crystal goblets.

  Into the hall there came a woman. She cursed the King and his company for the slaying of the most beloved of all her companion creatures.

  Instantly, all the people of the court became statues of clay that crumbled before the King’s eyes. The castle followed, rent to rubble at his feet.

  His Kingdom beyond the tumbled walls was now a barren desert. There was nothing but the road ahead, twisting like a serpent across the land.

  Jack could feel the ground beneath his feet opening up as the Gentleman played his fiddle, faster and faster.

  Jack shut his eyes and sharpened his wits. He thought of all the tales of the long roads. The tales of this world, and of the hidden places above and below it.

  Jack took his thoughts, and he set them to the Gentleman’s tune.

  ‘Heaven is taller than the tree

  And Hell is deeper than the sea.

  The hunger of a jealous mind

  Pricks sharper than the thorn so fine.

  The shame of the beloved’s scorn

  Cries louder than the hunter’s horn.

  The envy that stews deep in the blood

  Runs greener than the field or wood.

  The flattery that does honest truth surpass

  Is smoother than the shining glass.

  Colder than the clay of any land

  Is the touch of Death’s sure hand.

  But love is longer, in both the finding and the keeping

  Than any winding way of fortune-seeking.

  Dreadful though the witch’s words may be

  The Devil is worse. And you, fine Sir, are none but He.’

  The fiddle stilled its tune.

  Jack gathered all his courage and looked directly at the Gentleman as he sang out his final verse.

  ‘Your riddles thus solved, the wager is won.

  With your true name I command thee – Devil, be gone!’

  Two handsome horns came twisting out of the sides of that stovepipe hat. Hands and feet became claws and hooves.

  There was a terrible tearing as the long coat was rent asunder by steel-scaled wings sprouting from a buckled back and a tufted tail unravelled beneath.

  Savage Satan let out a great roar which shook both land and sky as he departed in a flash of fire.

  Jack scuffed away the circle that had held him.

  Then and there, he vowed he would not fall foul of the self-made snares of jealousy, shame, flattery or envy. Nor would he risk the trading of his own heart for that of another.

  Nor would he set his gaze upon a far horizon and dream away his days until Death laid its hand upon his shoulder.

  Instead, Jack pledged that he would set his mind only to whatever unfolded directly before him. Step by sure and steady step, he would be the constant master of his own Fate.

  Then he took a penny from his pocket, set it spinning beside the signpost, and the road that it fell upon was the road that he took.

  THE TWISTED OAK

  Once there was a farmer’s daughter and her name was Jeanie.

  It was Christmas Eve. Midnight Mass was over, and she was standing at the crossroads outside the church. There was the long road to the North, winding down through the village and up the hill to the farm. Then there was the short road to the East – across the stile, through the woods, over the fence and she’d be back in her warm bed in no time. So this was the road that she took.

  A full moon hung low in the sky to light Jeanie’s way. The pealing of the bells grew quieter as the trees closed in, but Jeanie had no fear of the forest or anything within it. She knew every twist of the tracks, every sound that could play tricks on the mind of a traveller – from the hooting of the watchful owl to the scamper of the quick fox in the undergrowth. But this night, drifting down the wind, there came something else. A long lamenting tune that was both the saddest and the sweetest song she had ever heard. It called to her, and she followed it.

  It led her away from the road home and down the darker paths, until she came to a place that was unfamiliar to her. There was a clearing with a tall, twisted oak at the heart of it. It stretched so high that the stars became the bright blossom of the branches. And there, leaning against its broad bark-buckled trunk, was a man.

  He was dressed in a velvet suit. A broad-brimmed hat cast shadow over his face. His hair was as dark as the fallen night. He had a fiddle tucked beneath his chin, the head of
which was carved into the shape of a grinning imp, with oak leaves forming his features. The bow had a silver tip that flashed through the darkness. Jeanie could not be certain if the man was playing the music, or the music was playing the man.

  Then the tune stilled, and he looked up. His eyes were the colour of new-grown grass.

  Jeanie saw that he was not one of the village folk – he was from somewhere else.

  ‘I am in need of assistance from a quick and clever girl,’ he said. ‘I wonder, is that you?’

  ‘Quick and clever enough,’ said Jeanie, ‘not to take on a task without knowing the nature of it or setting a price.’

  ‘It is but a simple piece of farm work.’

  He pulled a velvet pouch from his pocket and tipped out a cascade of silver coins into Jeanie’s palm.

  ‘Half upon agreement, the other half when we are done.’

  Gazing down on the fortune winking up at her in the moonlight, all Jeanie could think of was the damp of the milking shed and the stink of the straw as she shovelled it and how much she wished for a life beyond all of that.

  They shook hands on the agreement. The man’s hand was white and soft, and Jeanie felt ashamed of the roughness of her work-worn skin.

  The man struck his bow against the trunk of that twisted oak three times. As he did so the bark split and shifted, and a doorway opened. The man took Jeanie by the arm and led her inside.

  Jeanie found herself standing in a vast golden hall. A vaulted ceiling stretched above her head like a second forest. There was a table running the length of the room, piled up with a fine banquet. Seated at it was a party of lords and ladies, drinking from goblets brimming with wine and they were all making merry.

  Jeanie’s belly ached and her mouth watered, and she reached out her hand, but the man stopped her.

  ‘This is not for you,’ he said.

  Not one of the carousing crowd looked at Jeanie and the man as they walked past. It was as if she and her companion were ghosts to this company.

  At the end of the hall was another door, guarded by two handsome black hounds, tied to their posts with chains of silver. Jeanie reached out her hand to pet them but again the man stopped her.

  ‘This is not for you,’ he said.

  He led her to a tapestry hanging on the far wall. Embroidered upon it were flowers of the forest, some of which Jeanie knew and some of which she did not. The man pulled it aside to reveal a staircase made of copper and he guided Jeanie down below, step by ringing step.

  The stairs led into a candlelit cavern.

  In the centre of the room was a tall four-poster bed. On the bed was a woman, full-bellied and with skin as grey as ash.

  ‘This is for you,’ said the man.

  Jeanie had seen this before, at calving. She knew well enough that once the cold sweats come crawling, if the new life doesn’t get out quick it’s a bad end for both. She had also heard tell what can happen to a midwife who births death.

  She reached out her hand to the woman’s belly and this time the man let her.

  ‘It wants turning,’ she said.

  ‘And you have the skill,’ said the man. It was an order rather than a question.

  Jeanie thought of the black hounds above, the feasting crowds and the way that bark-buckled door had shut so swiftly and tightly behind her.

  ‘Not with you at my shoulder,’ she said. ‘There’s women’s work and there’s men’s work and they are not for mixing.’

  The man smiled, but there was little kindness in it.

  He took a jar from his pocket. It was cast of gold and in the shape of an acorn.

  ‘When the child comes, smooth this ointment into every last inch of its skin. But on no account place any of it upon your own person.’

  Jeanie did not think to question the impossible nature of this instruction. All her attention was upon the immediate task before her.

  For hour upon hour, Jeanie pummelled at the belly of the weeping woman. But life is life – it has urgency and intention. The baby righted itself and came into the world shrieking and perfect. A bonny boy, with his father’s dark hair and his mother’s blue eyes.

  Jeanie pooled the ointment into her palm. It glistened like the shimmer of a rainbow.

  She worked it over every inch of him: between his toes, behind his knees, into the crease of his elbows, inside the perfect shell of his ears. As she did so his howling turned to coos of contentment. When she was done, she gave him to his mother. No words passed between them, but Jeanie saw such sadness in her eyes, she had to look away.

  Then the full weight of the long night came upon Jeanie in a great wave. She was ready to sleep where she was standing. She rubbed her right eye, her fingers still slick and sticky. When she opened that eye again the room and everything in it was changed.

  The bed before her was nothing but broken boards stacked up with straw, tented in by twisting tree roots.

  The boy clawing at his mother’s breast had nothing bonny about him.

  His skin was dark and wrinkled. He stared at Jeanie. His eyes shone emerald green and his gaze was not that of a newborn.

  Jeanie stumbled, caught within the rotten root cage. And there, suddenly beside her, was the man. He was lifting his son up and pressing him to his cheek, against a face that was now sallow-skinned and ancient, like against like.

  ‘Well done, my quick and clever girl,’ he said. ‘Fair work deserves fair payment.’

  What had been a fine velvet pouch was now a scrap of sacking. He placed it in Jeanie’s palm, curling his fingers around her own. Dark against dark, like against like, her ointment-slick hands now as gnarled and knotted as blackened bark.

  But Jeanie thought of the World Above and all she loved in it – the wide-open meadow that blossomed each Springtime with a wealth and wonder of wildflowers. She did not flinch. Instead, she thanked him kindly and took the arm that he offered to her. His coat was nothing but rags.

  Up the stairs of rootstock they went, and through a torn tapestry of dead leaves. Sat sentry at the other side were two giant black rats, straining against their cobweb-collared leashes.

  But Jeanie thought of the World Above and all she loved in it – the way her favourite cow let Jeanie rest her forehead on her flank as she milked her. She did not flinch. Instead, she walked steadily past the rats’ spitting and snarling.

  She found herself in the hollow heart chamber of the oak, the golden roof now broken branches and stinking moss. The table was piled up with grey offal and mouldering bread. The wrinkled and tatter-clad tribes raised glasses of bilge water and drank deeply.

  Jeanie felt the bile rising up in her throat.

  But she thought of the World Above and all she loved in it – the salt-sizzled bacon in the skillet, the smell of her mother’s baking, the fresh water drawn from the well. She did not flinch. Instead, she held her head high as she walked through the rotten banquet, keeping her gaze fixed upon the door ahead.

  She felt the hard hammering of her heart as the man tapped on the door three times, and it opened. There was the forest beyond, and freedom.

  Jeanie stepped across the threshold, but the man still had her arm, and there he held her, one foot in this world and one in the other.

  ‘Mark my instruction, my quick and clever girl,’ he said. ‘Utter one word on this matter to any living soul and all your good fortune will crumble into dust.’

  Then he loosened his grip upon her, stepped back and the skin of the tree sealed shut.

  The Christmas bells were still chiming as Jeanie raced through the woods, leapt the fence and was in through the door of the farmhouse and drawing the bolts tight behind her.

  She emptied out her pockets and purse – no silver there, nothing but dry leaves. But it was a plant she knew – the grey, flat, round seedcases of the Honesty flowers that grew far and wide across the forest floor at Springtime.

  For other girls, that might have been the end of their story. But not for Jeanie. She was quick and she was clever.

  She blinked, and for a moment there was bright silver winking up at her.

  She blinked again – nothing but dead Honesty.

  She placed her hand over her right eye and there was the pile of coins. To the unseeing and the unknowing, she had indeed been gifted with riches, if she chose to take them.

  In the weeks that followed, Jeanie soon learned the trick of keeping her enchanted eye hidden behind the curtain of her hair so all that she saw was the truth of the world she had returned to. The rich red sky of dawn, the soft lowing calls of the cattle, the golden churning of the buttermilk all carried a beauty that she had never noticed before.