Caewen spent the next hour or so nursing the mug of ale while making the best of the cheeses and dried fruits, honey cakes, roasted nuts and salted breads that were brought out and set upon the trestle tables. She looked around, watchful. After starting in on the ale a little too thirstily, she now found herself feeling its woozy effect. The stuff was stronger than she’d expected. A discomforting thought came over her. She had drunk a little too heavily among a crowd of strangers that she did not trust. She looked at the black liquid and its white suds. It might have been her fourth or fifth mug–she had lost count–and though it was still half-full, she pushed the cup away, scraping out a slick, wet mark on the wooden grain of the tabletop.
The events of the evening marched.
The circle of dancers eventually dissolved into a mummery of puppeteers, though it was all achieved via a mingling sort of exchange, like leaves from two autumn storms meeting and wandering away again. The mummers carried their fantastical puppets on sticks: some of the creatures were small dragonish things with brightly coloured scales of gold and red and emerald paint, whilst the others, for the most part, were snakes of equally vibrant colours, twisting over the ground, striking, seething and coiling. In among the dragons and snakes stalked another thing entirely, a dark mass of rank fur with a deer skull and antlers. Several papery looking clouds of fluttering objects were also being waved about on poles, though Caewen was unsure if they were meant to be storm clouds or something else. The players performed their interweaving steps in a silence that had a sacred undertone to it. Even the chatter at the tables died down.
Looking around, Caewen saw Matty standing beside a seated couple. Their expressions were nervous and happy, and on their heads they wore massive crowns of brilliant red and gold, similar to the dancers’ wreathes of flowers, but much larger and more elaborate. Matty was talking amiably with another middle-aged man, perhaps a father or relative. It all looked like so many other weddings in so many other villages. The details differed of course, from place to place. The costume and the celebrations, the propitious acts of good fortune, the local delicacies and sweet foodstuffs. But there was otherwise something much the same in a wedding.
At some point the show with the puppets ceased and the mummers went away, sweating from their brows, red-cheeked and puffing. Several took long cold draughts of water straight from pitchers then sat down, exhausted. Caewen had not followed the story, such as it was, but she gathered there had been a fight and the dragonets won. Perhaps it was some historical memory twisted through the ever-looping coil of folk-story. Perhaps there had been a lord with dragons for a crest and another with snakes? She leaned over the table and said to the ladies, “I’m sorry if this is a rude question. You don’t have to answer it.” She could hear a slight slur in her words. “What was the play about?”
But the ladies didn’t answer her directly. Instead, Padgette tutted her and said, “You must be careful of snakes if you are going to go walkity-walk off east. Heathre has the most poisonous snakes in all the Clay-o-the-Green, and that’s a truth.”
“But, we’ve some of the best herb-men too,” added another of the ladies, Bargha, blinking her big watery eyes. They were a startling blue, even in the firelight flicker.
“But that of course is on account of us having such evil snakes,” replied the first lady, with rather a level tone. “After all, it’s the venomous beasties that make a need for such skill in the herb-arts.”
“True, true,” said the others, all nodding their heads.
“You said Heathre. I’ve heard of that land. It’s a kingdom. Is Whittawer under the crown?”
“Yes and no,” said Bargha.
“We’re out on the borderlands,” added Padgette, “so it all rather depends. We pay tax when the taxman comes, but he pays respects to our Matty Nutch, and what laws there are in Heathre are not held to here. We have our own old ways.”
“I see.” Caewen became aware of voices calling for Matty. It was a growing chorus of shouts and cries. “Come on!”–“Show us some sport!”–“Do the trick with your hounds.”–“Be a good’un, Matty. Go on!”
He protested at first, raising his palms, smiling a big, thick smile that swelled up his lips and cheeks. But it was rather obviously a show of polite humility. After only a little more cajoling from the crowd, Matty agreed, nodding and walking with a rolling stride of a gait into the cleared space of the village square.
“Now!” he declared. “Many of you have seen me perform my little illusions for the amusement of children and of course, for those with childlike minds.”
“Ha, ha, he means you, Arksel.” One rough man was elbowing another, to the general laughter of the crowd.
Matty used his hands to gesture downwards, as if he were patting down wool bales. “Now, now. Calm. Calm. A wedding is a rare gift and so I will perform a rare treat. No illusions or dancing flames, oh no. Many of you enjoy the coursing of the hounds, and hunting hares upon the hills. But have you seen the spirits of fire and darkness hunt? Have you seen them chase down prey, and sport with it, here and there, then to shred the flesh from the bones?”
Caewen did not like where this was going. Fetch hissed from the satchel where the little spirit had remained in hiding. She adjusted the satchel so that it was sitting higher and she could speak to the shadow-thing without drawing the attention of the older ladies. She felt his weight shift and squirm inside the leather. her voice was a hush. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”
“Tsck. No. But I feel the presence of the ash-hound spirits. They gather and curdle in the darkness. I can feel them.”
Caewen said, “H’m.” She watched on.
“Let us begin the show.” Matty bowed and his stomach protruded over his belt unflatteringly. He then proceeded call and whistle until a boy came running with a hessian sack that was heavy with something rather shapeless. This, he set on the ground and opened the mouth so that he could dig around with his hands. From the sack he pulled handfuls of turf. It was dirt mostly, with leaves and pebbles, some moss and bits of stick. The first handful was placed on the ground, and a small mound was formed. The magician added other handfuls of dirt until he had a pile about the size of a small cat. Then he made another similar-sized dirt pile, and another, another, another. All told, he made twelve of these little dirt hills. He rubbed his hands and scraped under his fingernails. His faced was alive with excitement. But before doing anything else, he took a chunk of roughly cut chalk from a pocket and used it to draw a big circle, marking out a space that the onlookers all seemed to know to keep clear from. They all stepped back and any child who got too close was pulled away, either by a soft-tutting mother or a more vocal older sibling. Once done, Matty Nutch returned to the middle of the circle. “Now, for a treat, my friends and fellows. Now for a show, my dear companions. Now for a wedding performance, my good and gracious bride and groom.” He whistled again, but this time he let out a low, eerie noise that made Caewen’s skin feel as if there was something hot and gritty under the surface. The two lanky demons trotted out of the darkness. The emerged from the night like real dogs coming out of dog houses. In the somewhat brighter light of the wedding torches and braziers, Caewen could see that the coats were not furry, like a hound’s, but rough with a thick dusty pelt of ash. The eyes burned just as a hot as a coal burns. Their tongues lolled and small flickerings of embers played on each wet red surface and between the yellow teeth.
“And now, the game!” announced Matty. He started to work up a charm, muttering at first, chanting and swaying as the spell gathered pace. The effort caused his face to redden. Stray bits of spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. His eyes grew bulgy and glaring.
Caewen couldn’t shake the awful feeling that he was looking right at her, though what rational part of mind was still operating told her that he was staring straight through her and the crowd alike. Whatever he was looking at, no one else could see.
“Tsch. He’s trapped little spirits in his sack,” said Fetch. “Nasty, miserable man. Tsssch.”
The piles of earth all began to shift and reshape. They took up forms, grew legs and feet. Pebbly dark stones became shining eyes. Ears grew and tufty bits of moss trailed away making whiskers and a light fuzz of fur. The dirt piles turned into hares made of earth, twig and stone. Each and every one of the creatures froze, then looked around hesitantly, clearly startled and unsure where they were. The crowd erupted into yells and cries and whoops.
The earth-spirits were jolted by the noise, and started jinking about, sprinting and bolting. But they could not pass the white circle. They slammed into the line and careered away, much as if they had hit a wall of brick. The little creatures started making the most awful, miserable mewling noises and plaintive little whimpers. Worse, Caewen was sure she could hear words. The tiny pleading voices were not used to speaking with a hare’s tongue it seemed, and they came out muffled and sad.
Though the crowd yelled and jeered, the dogs had not moved from their places. Matty Nutch raised a hand. “Behold the vermin of the fields. Behold the hues and spreets that eat at crops and nibble at the roots fruit trees.”
“Nonsense,” spat Fetch, thankfully not loud enough for anyone else to hear.
“Quieter,” warned Caewen.
“Tssch. Nonsense. Those are little moss-weirds. Harmless. Gentle. On my night wanderings, I’ve had many a yarn with a moss-weird. They’re not a threat to anyone. Liar. Nasty man.”
“And… release!” yelled Matty.
The hounds chased around the circle, snapping and pouncing. The jaws closed again and again. Several of the little spirit-creatures were torn apart, shrieking as they died. A few lasted a little while longer. Three were really persistent, desperate to escape, but the hounds were relentless. Finally, only one was left. Instead of running into the circle’s edge, or attempting to dodge the dogs, it went straight for Matty and dropped down in front of him. It made a series of little piping noises, and to Caewen’s eyes it was clearly begging and pleading directly with the magician, even as teeth closed on it, then crunched, then shook its life from the earthen flesh.
Only crumbly burning dirt fell on the ground.
A cheer went up.
“What a show!” said Padgette, her eyes glittering. “Puts life back in my heart to see such a thrill.”
Matty was clearly exhausted. He had to mop his neck and face with a kerchief, then accepted the arm of the boy who had brought out the bag earlier. He was helped to a seat where he drank deeply from an ale. His two dogs went slinking off once the spectacle was done.
“Tssch. And is it any wonder that spirits fear humanfolk? Is it any surprise that a demon will try to get the better of its master? Or that a spirit might–“
For a moment, Caewen was too shocked by what she had just seen to realise that Fetch had cut off half-way. “–they would what?” she said, a little hollowly.
“Nothing. Nothing. There are questions and answers, tsch. I am getting ahead of myself. There is no answer if there is no question.”
“I don’t follow?”
“Tsk. It doesn’t matter. Tssssch. Can we leave this place? I want to leave this place.”
Caewen raised her voice, directing it to the ladies. “Do you think anyone would object to me retiring early?”
“Oh yes. Good idea. The wedding’s about to start, and you’ll need to be off to bed anyways. No outsiders at the wedding shrine. Rules are being what rules are. Sorry, love.”
“Really, it’s fine by me. I am tired, and I’ve a long day and–“
“Did you enjoy the show?”
Caewen jumped where she sat. The magician had come up right behind her and she hadn’t noticed. She could not but help notice now that he was a big man, breathing heavily, sweating profusely from his face, eyes bright. For want of a better word, he looked almost aroused to Caewen.
She shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, ah. Yes. It was a sight to see.”
“I would prefer to make sport of darkness demons and fell creatures of shadow, but I’ve gone and harvested every last one that I can find. Not a spirit of darkness to be found between the wild woods and the long grey river.”
Fetch was notably silent.
“Ah,” said Caewen, weakly.
“You were thinking of sneaking off?”
“Well, I was, that is–“
He smiled that broad, meaty smile. “No, no need to prevaricate.” Each syllable was pronounced deliberately. “I’ll ask the ladies here to show you to my little house. They know the house well enough and can show you to the spare bed.”
“Thank you.”
“I will be, I am sorry to say, otherwise engaged. The wedding will be some hours yet. The shrine is not in the village and the procession takes time.”
“I won’t wait up for you.” She tried to show a pleasant smile, but was certain it came across as more of a rigor mortis grin.
“Of course not,” said Matty Nutch. “No, no. Make yourself at home. Get some rest. I would never want to be a bother.” He leaned closer. In a much lower voice, he added, “I perform that show very seldom these days. It taxes me. But I thought it important to impress a guest such as yourself. Has my performance impressed itself upon you?”
Caewen nodded.
“Good,” he said with some finality. “I do not want you sneaking about at night, You will stay under my watch and sleep the night where you will cause no mischief. I expect you to be gone at dawn. Once you are over the river, you are not of my concern any longer. The Queen of Heathre can decide what is to be done with you.” He stood up straight, smiled pleasantly, and spoke to the excited little clucking knot of old ladies, asking them to look after Caewen for him. They fawned over him, cooing and giggling like girls.
The only feeling Caewen had was a sickness in her stomach and a desire to up and gone well before dawn.