Levelling Up…
Burley
When he has a mind to, Menny Reedfellow can move as slow and quiet as the long afternoon shadow of a tree sliding across the side of a house. You’ve seen him approach a wild stag, as gentle as a breeze, and place a hand on its darting hide. He’s eased open sprung bear traps, fearless of the wounded beast that waits, placid and trusting, for his calm ministrations.
When you tell him about the Wyrms in Ellow’s Pond, you expect to be reprimanded for their swift despatch, but he only nods his head, slowly and without reproach.
‘A beast might go to the grey, Burley. And when it does, it kills for sport; it becomes hard and mean and vicious, and there’s nothing for it but to end the poor soul. You did the right thing,’ his smile is lopsided, and his amber eyes well with sympathy, whether for you or the creatures you slew, you’re not sure.
Menny’s young son Galwin darts between your legs, laughing as he tries to evade your father, who chases him, growling like a great bear. Your mother and Verna, Menny’s wife, fuss over the stewpot, debating the best seasoning for the simple, hearty lunch that they have prepared for you and your siblings. The Reedfellows and the Burleys have grown close, united by their shared interest in your education, and these family picnics are a regular occurrence.
‘As for Hokrun, and the Rangers of the Reach, well, I’d take everything that he says with a grain of salt. He and I no longer see eye to eye,’ thoughtfully, Menny’s gaze drifts toward the Eastern horizon, to the Reaching Wood.
‘He was always so sure about everything; where as I have often found that the right answer can be as slippery as a salmon. You have to feel your way to the truth, Burley. You looked out for your friends, and that’s never a bad thing.’
You feel your father’s gaze on you, his pride undisguised. Menny’s hunting horn came into your hands by chance all those years ago, and so your father’s unstinting admiration of your new career feels a little unearned. The Burley’s have always held humble station in the Dower, so perhaps it is understandable. But sometimes, like now, you feel that there is a hint of melancholy about his eyes, a shadow which haunts his happiness.
He may have his secrets, just as you have yours. You say nothing to Menny about your strange turn, the overwhelming flood of memories, so real yet so foreign, which distracted you from imminent peril. You wonder what Menny Reedfellow thinks of secrets.
Den
On the edge of Devlin’s Dower, just the other side of the Hollow Brook, sits the Litwick Carnival. When you were a child, the carnies used to go from town to town. Their carts would roll in late of an evening, stopping on the outskirts of some small hamlet or cluster of farmers’ cottages, and by morning they would have raised the tents and strung the highwires. A whole village of bright bunting and gaudy lights would appear overnight.
But for the last ten years or so, the carnival has been stopped here, just outside the Dower. In that time, you’ve seen the multi-coloured canvas of the bigtop fade, the animals slow and grow old, performers drift away. The circus feels as though it is winding down. And you wonder if you are to blame.
Still, on festival nights, when they light the lamps and the fire-breathers puff great plumes of coloured flame into the sky, there is a magic about the place. Young children still run between the legs of Drumstick, the tame old Mammoth, though his pelt is threadbare and greying now. And Dr Jellicoe, the ventriloquist, still makes ribald banter with his puppet, Bando.
No one from the Litwick Carnival had taken an apprentice from the Journeyman’s Call before. Normally, their numbers were swelled by runaways and orphans, new stars collected in the comet’s tail. But after Candlefoot chose you, the carnival halted, its circuit broken.
You’ve never been able to ask your mentor if this was because of you. At least, he’s never answered you. So many years, and still he’s never said a word. All the things that you’ve wanted to know remain mysteries. And like tonight, you’ve never been able to find him when you need him.
So you train alone, up on the highwire. The violence that you saw while serving with the Earl’s Men has come back into your life: just another thing to stew on. Where, you wonder, has Gander got to? Or, for that matter, where are your birth-parents, the Renshaws? Seeing that name on Featherfew’s map has bought them back to mind. And what of Tom Hurtle, and his missing weapon? So many questions; so little guidance. You have to pick your own path, one foot in front of the other, on this narrow thread.
Enid
‘It’s wonderful when we are all together like this,’ you lie, ‘I really feel like I can get the benefit of your collective wisdom.’
Ma Marigold cuts a pointed glance at you over her mortar and pestle; she has always been able to parse the truth from everything you say. ‘Well, we each have questions Enid. What happened in Wicklow Mill is serious. Curses, corruption, we can’t let something like that spread, it would be like leaving an infection untreated.’
‘I’m happy to go over it again,’ you say, ‘perhaps by talking it through one more time, we can get some answers.’
Sir Hugo Dyer smiles indulgently. It doesn’t seem to matter to him whether you are telling the truth or not; words that smooth things over are, to the old hedgewarder, better than true ones. ‘I’m more worried by what is happening in Sallow. It seems like Enid and her friends have dealt with the problems in Wicklow Mill. And now they’ve sent Manx Windear and the other refugees there, the people of Wicklow can start to rebuild.’
‘It really wasn’t difficult,’ you reply, ‘I would be happy to look into what is happening in Sallow.’
Father Kendrick nods serenely; you always feel guilty lying to the old, blind priest. But it’s not like you can help it. Twig, on the other hand, scowls at you fiercely, her eyes boring into you. The little foundling looks at everyone like that though, her grubby face glaring out from under a mass of uncombed hair. ‘The seasons turn as the river flows, we cannot ward off hardship. The best we can do is mend our fences and sow the seeds of future prosperity.’ He places a handful of bright green acorns on the table in front of you and smiles indulgently. He’d probably wink at you if he could.
‘I’m so lucky to have three mentors,’ you fib, wondering what it must be like for your friends, with just one person telling them what to do.
Featherfew
Over the years, you’ve learned to interpret the coded, close-mouthed language of your mentor, Rimple Welby. The thoughtful rubbing of his bristled chin, his sidelong squint, the clearing of his throat, the ruminative undulation of his pipestem, and - when he is feeling particularly voluble - the odd grunt are, to you, as clear a set of signs as the movement of the clouds or the dance of the wind over high grass. He instructs you wordlessly, turning your attention to some indifferent patch of woodland or an idly grazing sheep, then sitting with you in companionable contemplation, allowing you to winkle out the lesson yourself. As you hesitantly demonstrate your understanding, he remonstrates with a raised eyebrow, or offers approbation with a slow nod and cheerful puff of his pipe.
Perched by his side upon the stile, you follow his gaze to a small copse of trees. You watch, perfectly still and silent, until a badger, anticipating the oncoming dusk, trundles forth from his sett, snuffling for earwigs and earthworms in the undergrowth. You observe the movement of this creature, stocky and powerful, and are filled with a new sense of understanding. The interplay of seasonal rhythms, the appetites of wild creatures, all nature’s imperatives gradually reveal themselves as a grand matrix, a vast system, infinitely complex but clear to you now.
The badger turns its head, as though harkening to a far off sound, and its amber eyes lock with yours. You feel the edges of yourself dissolve as you become overwhelmed with a sense of kinship, of oneness.
As though sensing this tiny but momentous change in you, Rimple speaks for what feels like the first time in months: ‘This land knows you, lad. It’s past time you came to know it.’ You leave his side and slip your skin, descending into the bracken. Into your home.
Ilyad
Your mentor, Robbie Pallabar, has never cared about your past - even the time you spent in the jailhouse at Triel - in fact, she doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the present either. All Robbie has ever been interested in are the fragments and whispers of the future that come to her in trances.
The ability to dream with purpose is difficult to impart to a pupil, so instead Robbie has shared with you all her numerous and complicated rituals - the lighting of candles, the brewing of tea, the dealing of cards, the rattling of bones, and the pacing out of labyrinthine magic circles - all designed to allow a peek through the keyhole in the door of time.
Now in the cinnamon and sandalwood smoke wafting from Robbie’s censer, you allow yourself to drift, to open your mind to those urgent whispers that hiss sibilantly just beyond the edge of hearing. Since your arcane talents manifested, you have been aware of something, someone, attempting to make themselves known to you. Now, you let them in.
The visions come in a rush, so fast that you can only mutter an impression to Robbie before they fade from view.
‘I see scales,’ you whisper.
‘Something bought into balance. Or out of it. A reckoning,’ Robbie interprets.
‘I see smoke’
‘…without fire,’ Robbie muses, ‘could it be a warning? Danger spreading?’
’I see wheels turning.’
‘Fortune’s Wheel? What is high may be brought low. Or perhaps the opposite.’
‘I see red wings,’ you gasp, breathless now.
‘A bird in flight? An escape maybe, though not unscathed.’
All that remains of your dream are flashes of blood and old, notched blades. As you emerge from your trance, Robbie looks grim.
‘That part is easy to interpret, at least,’ she says. ‘Death is coming to the Dower, Ilyad. There is going to be a murder.’
Pebbles
Burt Wilton hawks a great gobbet of phlegm, yellow and viscously quivering, onto his own workshop floor. Your mentorship has been eyeopening in many ways, but above all Mister Wilton seems at pains to instruct you in ever more relaxed approaches to personal hygiene.
‘Let’s see what you’ve got Alwyn. See if you’ve got that Rummager’s Nose twitching,’ with which he waggles his own fleshy, red proboscis.
All along the road to and from Wicklow Mill, you fossicked and scavenged all sorts of odds and ends, searching for something that might be repaired, reused, or, best of all, resold. Nothing that you found, however, has made you feel anything like what you felt when you touched that golden pauldron - that electric tingle that ran right through you.
‘Crap; junk; crap; this ain’t bad; junk,’ Mister Wilton rummages through your handcart, assessing each item in turn. ‘Bloody wonderful haul, Alwyn, bloody marvellous. Lots of good junk and crap in there.’
From the bottom of the handcart he retrieves your Mother’s book, the one she had started writing about her adventures with the mysterious Sir Starling. ‘What’s this then? You know we don’t have much demand for lit-er-achoor,’ Mister Wilton makes such a meal of that word that it seems only natural when it is followed by a loud belch.
There seems something unseemly about Burt Wilton touching this precious thing, your Mother’s memoir of chivalric deeds and noble quests. Tactfully, you extract the pages from the rag & bone trader’s hands.
‘Suit yourself. Now, I got some friends coming to town. Might have some good junk - proper old stuff, if you catch my drift. I’d like you to meet ‘em. They might be able to show you a thing or two, plucky young lad like you.’ He punctuates each opaque sentence of this oratory with a heavy wink, implying some deeper, possibly nefarious meaning, but as he promptly dozes off in his chair, you wonder whether he was just warming up for a quick nap.