refused to understand what it meant. Again, forgive your narrator’s infuriating reticence.
I began to feel a desperate urge: I wanted to go to them, to be among them. Only I hesitated. I was still just this ordinary man; this Rogrig Wishard. And they were…they were real.
Left to me, the reluctant stand-off between us might have gone on forever unresolved.
Someone was suddenly at my side, asking questions of me.
‘Sir, we are strangers, I think? And yet, do I not know you, my Lord?’ The introduction, the flattery, was clumsy at best. My lowly rank was obvious enough. I was, after all, dressed in a crudely armoured peasant’s jack, and no doubt smelled of mire and fields, fighting irons and…the stale blood of dead horses, and men.
‘Er…no,’ I answered lamely. Only then did I look towards my inquisitor.
I thought I had found my sixth faerie.
It was a young woman who stood there. She was looking at me in earnest, as if to put more weight into the meaning of her first words, and yet her face was flushed. She was obviously embarrassed by the pretence in her approach. That: or else she was simply unpractised at the common tongue.
‘Yes, I do think I know you…’ she said. Even as she spoke she took a deliberate step backwards, which left her standing in the shadows of a tree; as if, even now she was not quite ready to reveal herself fully to me. Around us, fires burned and the bright, childish processions of make-believe faeries continued to flow past.
I could see her clearly enough. She was tall and lithe, handsome rather than beautiful, and stood rather in the way of a man; without swagger but assured and capable. She was dressed completely in black – Everything about her was black. From her black pointed shoes, made of soft black leather, to her black skin-tight breeches that accentuated her bony hips and slightly bowed legs. Her woollen jerkin was black, with its sleeves pulled down over her hands and loose threads hanging wistfully from the ends (as if her fingers had deliberately unpicked them). Her face was flawed ebony. She had thin, slightly vague, black lips that were always wet. Long dark eyelashes, that hid her never more than half open black eyes. She left me with the same impression the other faeries had given me: she was trying to hide herself in full view of everyone. Everything was about hiding.
‘Who…who are you?’ I asked. I was being deliberately slow-witted. For I had no doubt now; it was she I had first encountered upon the mire. However improbable, this strange woman, this fey creature, had saved my life. I had seen no transformation, yet I knew if I was to look about me now to search out the crow I would not find it there.
‘You do not recognize me yet?’ she said. She spoke thoughtfully, with no hint of impatience. ‘If you are in want of a name, I have two. Which one would you prefer? Indeed, which one would you believe? I am both Lucia Hogspur and I am Lowly Crows…And you…?’ She began a clumsy unpractised bow, when she found herself rudely interrupted.
‘And you will be Rogrig Wishard, if I am not mistaken. And I never am.’ This was a statement not a question. The stubborn old crone had reappeared and stepped between us.
‘And how is it that
you
know my name?’ I asked rudely, in my turn.
‘Well, you look like Rogrig Wishard,’ said the crone, dismissively. She took a deep suck on her pipe and blew out an extravagant plume of blue-grey smoke.
‘Our Wily Cockatrice can,
see…
She
sees
…’ said Lowly Crows, drawing out the repeated word, wincing slightly at the awkwardness of her explanation (and finishing her bow). ‘She knows something of us all…Sometimes better than I would like, if I am truly honest.’
I saw the faint beginnings of a smile forming at the corner of her mouth, only for it to disappear.
‘Now please. We must speak together,’ she said, again in earnest. ‘We are in need of your close confidence. It is important…but cannot
I began to feel a desperate urge: I wanted to go to them, to be among them. Only I hesitated. I was still just this ordinary man; this Rogrig Wishard. And they were…they were real.
Left to me, the reluctant stand-off between us might have gone on forever unresolved.
Someone was suddenly at my side, asking questions of me.
‘Sir, we are strangers, I think? And yet, do I not know you, my Lord?’ The introduction, the flattery, was clumsy at best. My lowly rank was obvious enough. I was, after all, dressed in a crudely armoured peasant’s jack, and no doubt smelled of mire and fields, fighting irons and…the stale blood of dead horses, and men.
‘Er…no,’ I answered lamely. Only then did I look towards my inquisitor.
I thought I had found my sixth faerie.
It was a young woman who stood there. She was looking at me in earnest, as if to put more weight into the meaning of her first words, and yet her face was flushed. She was obviously embarrassed by the pretence in her approach. That: or else she was simply unpractised at the common tongue.
‘Yes, I do think I know you…’ she said. Even as she spoke she took a deliberate step backwards, which left her standing in the shadows of a tree; as if, even now she was not quite ready to reveal herself fully to me. Around us, fires burned and the bright, childish processions of make-believe faeries continued to flow past.
I could see her clearly enough. She was tall and lithe, handsome rather than beautiful, and stood rather in the way of a man; without swagger but assured and capable. She was dressed completely in black – Everything about her was black. From her black pointed shoes, made of soft black leather, to her black skin-tight breeches that accentuated her bony hips and slightly bowed legs. Her woollen jerkin was black, with its sleeves pulled down over her hands and loose threads hanging wistfully from the ends (as if her fingers had deliberately unpicked them). Her face was flawed ebony. She had thin, slightly vague, black lips that were always wet. Long dark eyelashes, that hid her never more than half open black eyes. She left me with the same impression the other faeries had given me: she was trying to hide herself in full view of everyone. Everything was about hiding.
‘Who…who are you?’ I asked. I was being deliberately slow-witted. For I had no doubt now; it was she I had first encountered upon the mire. However improbable, this strange woman, this fey creature, had saved my life. I had seen no transformation, yet I knew if I was to look about me now to search out the crow I would not find it there.
‘You do not recognize me yet?’ she said. She spoke thoughtfully, with no hint of impatience. ‘If you are in want of a name, I have two. Which one would you prefer? Indeed, which one would you believe? I am both Lucia Hogspur and I am Lowly Crows…And you…?’ She began a clumsy unpractised bow, when she found herself rudely interrupted.
‘And you will be Rogrig Wishard, if I am not mistaken. And I never am.’ This was a statement not a question. The stubborn old crone had reappeared and stepped between us.
‘And how is it that
you
know my name?’ I asked rudely, in my turn.
‘Well, you look like Rogrig Wishard,’ said the crone, dismissively. She took a deep suck on her pipe and blew out an extravagant plume of blue-grey smoke.
‘Our Wily Cockatrice can,
see…
She
sees
…’ said Lowly Crows, drawing out the repeated word, wincing slightly at the awkwardness of her explanation (and finishing her bow). ‘She knows something of us all…Sometimes better than I would like, if I am truly honest.’
I saw the faint beginnings of a smile forming at the corner of her mouth, only for it to disappear.
‘Now please. We must speak together,’ she said, again in earnest. ‘We are in need of your close confidence. It is important…but cannot
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