be done here. I think you understand?’
There were still crowds of dancers in the street. There were drummers. There were pipers. People were singing nonsense songs. There was a juggler, drunken men reeling, and a throng of babbies dressed as impish faeries. There was nothing to stop me from simply moving in among them and walking away.
Only I was not certain I wanted to walk away. (I was not certain of anything.)
‘So, what is it to be, are you coming with us or not?’ The old crone, who Lowly Crows had called Wily Cockatrice, spoke abruptly, yet softly now. ‘You must make up your own mind…One way or the other. Yes or no?’ Her words were an inquiry not a threat, but the implication in her tone was clear enough. She was the ancient grotesque and I the battle-worn reiver. Yet it was I who had reason to be wary of her; not the other way around. A thin wisp of white smoke escaped her nose.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I will come with you.’
Chapter Fourteen
Joining the Dance
Wily Cockatrice made us take a hold of each other’s hands, as if we were to play some frivolous game, deliberately leading us into the throng of Wycken revellers. She snatched at a tail of fluttering ribbons hanging from the backside of a passing drunk, and began to dance a kind of reckless jig behind him. We could only follow after her and joined his reeling procession. It struck me, these were
real
faeries: among a masquerade. Real faeries: pretending to be pretend faeries. (Though, I did not regard myself among their number.) In fact it was all quite ridiculous. I tried to feign enthusiasm for the dance, but each foolish, prancing step we took was badly placed and ever mistimed. The crowds were actually laughing at our lame attempts. Among it all, my leather poke, complete with its oddly assorted contents, disappeared. It was swiftly lifted from my person by some clever unseen hand. And there were random insults, if spoken in jest and not badly meant.
‘You’ll need steadier legs old mother, and better masks, if you mean to fool the babbies with that display!’ Someone called out to the ancient crone.
‘Aye, right enough…!’ added another. ‘Or else you’ll all be slapping your arses against the ground!’
Lowly Crows and Wily Cockatrice stoutly ignored the rebukes and put on brave faces – which meant them fixing rigid smiles, holding them stiffly in place. Mind, they kept up their unruly stride, unabashed. The fat youth, whose true name was Dogsbeard, only coughed and spluttered as if with some childish complaint. While the pair of coquettes took no mind of the insults at all. The reverse of it! They curtsied regally before our protagonists, and played up to the greater crowd.
‘Should we dance for them my, Fortuna?’ asked one of the other.
‘Indubitably…! We should dance for them my Sunfast.’ Together, they hitched up their skirts and, encouraged by a sudden spontaneous applause, flung their hair about in a furious abandon.
For perhaps another hundred clumsy steps the drunkard’s cavorting procession snaked forwards, to the wild beating of drums. Then, on reaching a division in the street, the teetering line gave an awkward lurch and swung abruptly in that new direction, spilling several of its members, losing them to an oncoming crowd as they fell over, tumbling together. Wily Cockatrice saw her chance and, at the same moment, let go the drunken man ahead of her. She turned sharply aside, taking us off that street altogether, and down some crooked covered back lane (only there because the wooden hovels rested shoulder to shoulder at that point, leaving an irregular gap between them on the ground).
The procession had let us go without a fuss and once out of its sight our company quickly stopped their foolish dancing and fell into a, more or less, steady walk. The drop in pace allowed us all to catch our breath a little – and straighten our faces.
I remember coming out of the crooked back lane onto a narrow,
There were still crowds of dancers in the street. There were drummers. There were pipers. People were singing nonsense songs. There was a juggler, drunken men reeling, and a throng of babbies dressed as impish faeries. There was nothing to stop me from simply moving in among them and walking away.
Only I was not certain I wanted to walk away. (I was not certain of anything.)
‘So, what is it to be, are you coming with us or not?’ The old crone, who Lowly Crows had called Wily Cockatrice, spoke abruptly, yet softly now. ‘You must make up your own mind…One way or the other. Yes or no?’ Her words were an inquiry not a threat, but the implication in her tone was clear enough. She was the ancient grotesque and I the battle-worn reiver. Yet it was I who had reason to be wary of her; not the other way around. A thin wisp of white smoke escaped her nose.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I will come with you.’
Chapter Fourteen
Joining the Dance
Wily Cockatrice made us take a hold of each other’s hands, as if we were to play some frivolous game, deliberately leading us into the throng of Wycken revellers. She snatched at a tail of fluttering ribbons hanging from the backside of a passing drunk, and began to dance a kind of reckless jig behind him. We could only follow after her and joined his reeling procession. It struck me, these were
real
faeries: among a masquerade. Real faeries: pretending to be pretend faeries. (Though, I did not regard myself among their number.) In fact it was all quite ridiculous. I tried to feign enthusiasm for the dance, but each foolish, prancing step we took was badly placed and ever mistimed. The crowds were actually laughing at our lame attempts. Among it all, my leather poke, complete with its oddly assorted contents, disappeared. It was swiftly lifted from my person by some clever unseen hand. And there were random insults, if spoken in jest and not badly meant.
‘You’ll need steadier legs old mother, and better masks, if you mean to fool the babbies with that display!’ Someone called out to the ancient crone.
‘Aye, right enough…!’ added another. ‘Or else you’ll all be slapping your arses against the ground!’
Lowly Crows and Wily Cockatrice stoutly ignored the rebukes and put on brave faces – which meant them fixing rigid smiles, holding them stiffly in place. Mind, they kept up their unruly stride, unabashed. The fat youth, whose true name was Dogsbeard, only coughed and spluttered as if with some childish complaint. While the pair of coquettes took no mind of the insults at all. The reverse of it! They curtsied regally before our protagonists, and played up to the greater crowd.
‘Should we dance for them my, Fortuna?’ asked one of the other.
‘Indubitably…! We should dance for them my Sunfast.’ Together, they hitched up their skirts and, encouraged by a sudden spontaneous applause, flung their hair about in a furious abandon.
For perhaps another hundred clumsy steps the drunkard’s cavorting procession snaked forwards, to the wild beating of drums. Then, on reaching a division in the street, the teetering line gave an awkward lurch and swung abruptly in that new direction, spilling several of its members, losing them to an oncoming crowd as they fell over, tumbling together. Wily Cockatrice saw her chance and, at the same moment, let go the drunken man ahead of her. She turned sharply aside, taking us off that street altogether, and down some crooked covered back lane (only there because the wooden hovels rested shoulder to shoulder at that point, leaving an irregular gap between them on the ground).
The procession had let us go without a fuss and once out of its sight our company quickly stopped their foolish dancing and fell into a, more or less, steady walk. The drop in pace allowed us all to catch our breath a little – and straighten our faces.
I remember coming out of the crooked back lane onto a narrow,
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