Folk Page 4

  ‘Just listen,’ March whispered and shifted further into the corner. Grey leaned back against a beam and let the icy draught from the doorway chill her cheeks. The other listeners gazed once more into the fire, while the familiar words droned on. Grey put her fingers in her ears and made a story of her own.

  When March flew into the house and clanged the water pail down on the table, Grey stared at her sister’s cheeks and chin, red raw. She went for a closer look.

  ‘If you’d been out in the cold,’ said Grey, circling her sister. ‘But this January’s suddenly mild as May.’

  March dipped her finger in the pail and flicked water at Grey.

  ‘So, who’s been kissing you?’ Grey poked her sister’s red sore chin.

  ‘Oh, Jack Frost!’ March said, and fled up the stairs.

  ‘I sent you for water at noon,’ their mother yelled from the garden, where she had dragged the rocking chair and rug. Grey looked out and saw their mother, curled in Father’s lap in the chair. Where there had been snow only a few days ago, sparkling hard on the ground, the rockers now sank in wet mud. Instead of frost, there were weeds speckling green in the turnip patch.

  The next day, Grey spied on her sister as she took the wrong turn from the house with the empty pail, and she followed her. How March swung her arms and threw back her head as she sped right away from the gurgling river and up towards the wood. She didn’t hear one squelch of Grey’s feet in the melt puddles. She didn’t turn when Grey cursed the drips from the thawing trees. Deeper into the wood they went, where ramsons waved their green ribbons by the path. March slowed, ambling in the eager January sun.

  Grey trod on a snowdrop as she went to skulk behind a sturdy oak tree. It was not long before she heard her sister shriek, and peeped round when the shriek turned to a laugh. She saw, wrapped around her sister’s waist, the long, pale fingers. She saw the man’s shirtsleeved arms lift March high and swing her, as she gazed down at his thin, white face. The lovers’ eyes gleamed. The air around them sparkled. Grey felt a cold prickle at the crown of her head. As she watched, it spread all the way down her neck, her back, through her buttocks and belly, her thighs, her knees, her toes. She pressed into the oak tree trunk and stared at the man until he was frozen into her mind’s eye, slender and graceful and hard and so very pale. Grey crept home, relishing the drips from the trees that trickled over her scalp.

  ‘It was noon when I sent you for water,’ their mother bellowed from the garden.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Grey. She found their mother lying alone in the rocking chair, and she sat in her lap and wrapped her arms around her neck.

  ‘Your father’s gone hunting,’ her mother said. ‘Every January since we were wed I’ve had him all to myself, bless the snow. But this thaw has made his old fingers itch.’

  ‘I want a lover, too,’ said Grey into her mother’s shoulder. ‘I’m too old for silly kissing games in the gorse.’

  ‘Has that Oxley boy not come courting?’

  ‘Pie? Too spotty.’

  ‘Or the Rincepans’ lad?’

  ‘Sandy? Too round.’ Grey shuddered.

  ‘Your turn will come, my bonny girl,’ said her mother.

  ‘I want the lover that March has got.’

  Her mother pushed her upright, better to look into her face.

  ‘She doesn’t go to the river, or to the well, Mother. She goes to the wood and waits. I’ve seen him. He’s splendid.’

  ‘The tyke,’ said her mother. ‘So, what is he like?’

  Grey told.

  Her mother tapped her fingers on the arms of the rocking chair. ‘Your curls may be mousy and those freckles can’t be helped, but you’re still bonnier than March, my girl. If you want him, I’m sure all you have to do is wait in her place.’

  ‘But March will be swanning off there the moment you set her a chore, Mother.’

  ‘She won’t. I’ll put her to sweeping the cellar first thing, and I’ll shut the trap. I’ll say I forgot she was there.’

  ‘What if she knocks?’

  ‘I’ll say I didn’t hear.’

  Grey kissed her mother’s cheek, and together they basked in the sweet winter sun.

  When March came home, nobody said a word as she clanged the pail down on the table. Grey still said nothing when March steamed up the whole house, boiling all the water for a bath, which she sat in right through the evening until it was cold. Grey drew long fingers in the misted windows and imagined them curling around her waist, lifting her up in the air, twirling her like a top.

  She spied on March as she dressed and saw her put on new stockings, new boots of black fur, new gloves fresh as snow. ‘Where d’you get those?’ she said, blocking her sister’s path down the stairs.

  ‘Out of my way,’ said March, and twisted Grey’s ear.

  ‘It’s night, dear sister. You must stay home, safe. But really, where did you get those?’ Grey nudged at March’s furred feet with her toes.

  ‘Oh, from Jack Frost!’ March cried. ‘Let me go,’ and she pushed past her sister, tripped over Grey’s out-turned foot and tumbled down the stairs.

  Their mother came running. ‘Help me put her to bed,’ she said to Grey, while they both made eyes at the new boots and gloves. They gripped March’s arms as they helped her back up the stairs. She made a terrible noise, spluttering and howling. When they had tucked her as tight as they could under the covers, they locked the door and listened to her snivelling.

  ‘The tyke,’ said their mother. ‘She’d better stay put tomorrow. No chores for her. Take these.’ She gave Grey the white gloves and the black fur boots that she had pulled from March’s hands and feet. ‘Now come and keep me company. Your father will be out hunting all night, and since it’s January, I will miss his old bones.’

  So they got into the big feather bed, and chattered, and whispered, and snored into the night. Under their deep, downy quilt, neither of them noticed how the air chilled, and the world outside grew quiet.

  When they woke in the morning to the hammering of March’s fists on her door, they saw that Grey’s scribbles had gone from the windows, replaced by patterns of glittering trees and frosted leaves. They hurried down the stairs, shivering, away from the din. Grey opened the door and saw snow as high as her knees, crumbs of it sailing in eddies through the blue air. She watched her breath mist and her fingers turn pink.

  ‘Doesn’t look like stopping,’ said her mother behind her. ‘And your father still out in those woods.’

  ‘March won’t stay put much longer,’ said Grey.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said her mother, as she held out the boots for Grey’s feet and the gloves for Grey’s hands. ‘And he does sound splendid, even apart from the gifts.’ She waved her daughter off. Then she sat by the cold grate, biting her nails and saying to herself, ‘He should be back, he should be back by now,’ while March raged and stamped above her head.

  Grey kicked her way through the snow so it fell again like clumps of feathers. The trees, decked in icicles, were not so familiar as yesterday, but she found her way. Her boots crumped in the thick quiet and were soon damp. The gloves, too, were soon wet with brushing snow from her hair. But her cheeks were surely glowing. She would look very bonny indeed as she waited on the path near the broad oak.

  Grey waited and waited, snowflakes sailing about her. Her toes turned numb. She tired of batting the blizzard from her face and let the flakes settle, hardening on her lashes. Her eyes were surely sparkling. She bit her lips to keep them pink. Then she tried a little laugh, but it turned into a gulp. Still nobody came. She tried to wriggle her toes, but they were frozen solid. Her fingers would not move in the stiffened gloves.

  She began to walk, further into the wood, to warm herself, and so that she might find him sooner, while she could still make a winsome smile. She followed the path as the trees crept in closer, webbed together by drifts of snow. The path petered out. It meant pushing between holly bushes, shoving through the drifts that hid bramble t
raps to trip her up. But it didn’t matter, because even though her teeth chattered and crystals weighed down her eyelids, she found a kind of cabin. It was more of a hut, really, in size, but it was hard to tell because it was all over icicles, hanging from the roof to the ground, thick as glass trunks. Its roof glittered with frosted snow.

  Grey shuffled around the ice cabin until she found a door, with a slit of window in it. She pressed her icy nose against it and spied inside. There, sitting quite upright on a wide, silvery bench, was the man. He had long, pale fingers that twiddled in his lap. His thin, white face was turned towards the door.

  He gave Grey his arm as she hobbled inside. Her mouth made a smile, lips closed to hide her chattering teeth. There was a sound of crackling, just like a warm fire, but Grey did not see any hearth inside the cabin. There were no rugs, no furs, only the bench and a small table on the other side. On the table stood a lantern that burned with a chill blue light. Grey swayed on her numb feet, but the man caught her, his long fingers at her waist.

  ‘My bonny girl,’ he said. Or Grey thought he said this. His voice was so hoarse as to be a whisper that misted in her ear. ‘Let me help you.’

  He tugged the white gloves from her hands and tossed them on to the table. He unhooked her coat and peeled it from her shoulders. Then he strode to the bench and sat, straight, looking at her with eyes so pale they were hardly blue. Grey was colder than ever, in the crackling cabin with no fire.

  ‘Your boots,’ he whispered. And Grey had to shamble, as prettily as she could on her numb feet, towards the bench. He patted the seat and eased her on to it. His smile was wide across his narrow face. She waited as he bent and tugged each boot from her foot, left, right.

  ‘Who gave you those?’ he asked. His breath made no mist. ‘Who?’ The man slid closer to her on the bench. His thin arm pressed against hers and made her tremble all the more.

  ‘Um, Jack Frost?’ Grey said.

  His fingers were hard at her waist, turning her towards him; his face, so close, the bluish white of early morning snow. He was splendid.

  ‘Jack Frost,’ Grey said again, leaning back a little, against his hands. Her eyes were wide open as he pressed his mouth to hers, parting her lips. Her eyes stayed open as he breathed into her, a breath of ice that frosted her lungs and froze her veins.

  There Grey sat, when he had pulled away. Her mouth was wide, her eyes startled. She was leaning back a little, against the air.

  After she had tugged at the door handle until it tore off and kicked at the door until her toes broke, March lay on the floor and howled herself hoarse. That took a little time. Then she lay quiet, listening to the throb of her bruises. The door hung heavy on its thick black hinges. She crawled towards it and started with the lowest hinge, twisting the screw with her fingernail.

  As she turned the ninth and highest screw, a nail torn for each before it and her fingers stained with blacking, she heard voices outside the house. From her window she saw the snow falling, and the beautiful endless blanket of it, torn by the footprints of three men. They were carrying her father into the house. March wrenched the door from its hinge and stumbled down the stairs.

  Her father was laid out on the table. Her mother and the men bent over him.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked March, but her mother only moaned.

  ‘Found him by the wood,’ one of the men said. ‘Blizzard came in so fast last night. Must be he thought to sit it out.’

  The ice in her father’s beard and eyebrows was starting to melt. Water dripped on to the table. Her mother bent lower, until her lips touched the water.

  March stared at him, until the cold from his body crept over her own skin.

  ‘Where’s my sister?’ she said. ‘Where’s Grey?’

  ‘Once upon a time there were two sisters. They were as bad as each other, but neither was as bad as their mother.’

  March looks out across the bard house fire, at the rows of faces turned towards her. So many nights she has fidgeted her way through tales, yawned at the tellers, yet here she is. Her palms are sticky. She glances towards the shadowy patch by the door and breathes deep.

  ‘When winter came,’ she goes on, but she hears a whispering from the back of the bard house. ‘Who’s that?’ she recites. ‘You’ve broken the tale, when I’ve just begun.’ She squints into the dark. A narrow, pale face leans forward from the shadow. It is lit by a lantern burning blue. March’s tongue turns dry.

  ‘I’ll begin again,’ she says, keeping her eyes on the bard house fire, its orange flames, the rosy faces nearest. ‘This is the tale, the true tale, of Jack Frost.’

  A cured stick for a stirrer. A sturdy one for a sweeper. Brittle sticks for tinder. A green branch to hang the pot. A forked one for ceremony.

  I chose my sticks with wisdom. It were a green day, a bird sang, I remember, while I walked up. Unwound the ivy, careful, and noted the turn of the coil. Sunwise a good sign for a merry-weather stick, widdershins for doing the darks. Two forked sticks, among all those sticks that were mine. And then those small pink hands holding them, like mole paws before the skins are dried out. A mole paw is good for an earth curse, or to find the way in a moonless night. What moon is it tonight? My bones can’t tell me. Cover my peepers and I can see most things, just ask me, but now I see nothing. Those were my sticks, in those small pink hands. They were my bones, my skull, my fingers, and those of them that’ll waggle still I’ve walked about me and I’ve felt a bit of what the sticks have done. There’s pulpy parts, sticky messes. What was wet has dried to crusts, mostly. Some fingers are stuck together with it. Eyes gummed tight shut. That’s if there’s still eyes, under these crackly lids.

  ‘Who told you such a tale?’ Shilla Quirk rears up from the earth wild-eyed and brandishes her spade high in the air, sending a hail of soil over her two daughters. ‘Who told you and how much?’

  Bryony glares at Gertrude, but she has on that mask she can conjure sometimes that makes her into a dolly, silent and with painted-on eyes. Around their mother’s feet lie stones and dandelion roots like witches’ fingers, torn from the vegetable patch. Bryony thinks of mandrakes, their silent screams, and the screams that echoed in the story they have heard. She wants more; for the shadowy horrors to be brought out into the chilly light.

  ‘It were Guller the fowlmonger,’ she mumbles. ‘We went for the eggs like you asked and he gave us some pretty feathers, too, and...’

  ‘It were Guller.’ Shilla shoves the spade down into the clumpy earth at her feet where it splits a root with a crunch. She rubs her huge hands over her face, and when her arms drop down her features are changed. Her bulgy eyes look tired. ‘That’s folk for you,’ she says, eyeing the broken ground.

  Neither Bryony nor Gertrude make a sound. There’s nothing at all but the daft cheeps from the nest in the wych elm and the hush-hush of its bright new leaves. Bryony bites on her thumb and thinks how her lips would feel if they were in that tale they’d heard, split and squishy as gone-over raspberries.

  ‘Is it true, then?’ asks Gertrude. Bryony wonders where she gets that stone inside her from, even though she’s so small; how she can squash the fear like a frog under that stone that gets them both into such trouble.

  Shilla squats down and takes a handful of soil, rubbing it between her fingers to test its goodness. ‘It were a long time ago, so long now it don’t matter so much, but it’s a lesson for you meddlers, in its way.’

  ‘What’s the lesson?’ says Gertrude. Her black hair is sticking out in tufts from her bony head, and Bryony thinks of moss on a small boulder.

  Shilla heaves herself upright and gazes at the girls. ‘Spades and forks, the pair of you. Get your pinnies on and follow the furrow behind me.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll tell?’ Bryony whispers to Gertrude as they carry the tools back to the garden.

  ‘I’ll make her tell,’ says Gertrude. ‘Don’t you want to know?’

  ‘I don’t want a bruise for the school house tomorrow.’ />
  ‘Don’t be such a rabbit-bottom. It’ll be worth it. And it were real people who lived here who did it, and a real witch. Hark showed me her old house near the woods, all crumbled.’

  ‘Just keep that tongue of yours in your mouth if she gets uppity.’

  Gertrude glares over her shoulder at Bryony as she marches up behind their ma’s wide haunches, bent double as she rips brambles from the earth. ‘Tell us the story while we dig, Ma,’ Gertrude says. ‘We’re eager for the lesson.’

  Bryony gives her a shove that makes her stagger as they crouch and begin to turn the soil with their forks.

  All those little faces, so close, I found that a strange thing. Little limbs that look so soft and harmless, at the distance their mammies tend to keep them. Little skipping feet and clapping hands. I think of them that way, or I did, when I thought of children. I’d no longing any more for my own. I spelled that out of myself so many years ago I’ve forgot the feel of it. But there, they are all about, you cannot go without spotting them jinking here and there, jibber-jabbering like birdies. I see the life in them. I seen the big ones, half child half man, and the mischief they gets into, clobbering each other and howling up through the woods where they think nothing but rabbits spies them. But the bitty ones, who’d think they have that strength secret in their chickeny arms, who’d think there was anything but feathers in their wibble-wobble heads? I’ve the proof of it, here in these clotty wounds and these pulpy parts that might still be my eyes.

  ‘Your father and me, and that Guller too, were as small then as the pair of you, and likely no better, but no worse neither. We learned our right and wrong in the school house, and my own ma and pa kept my back straight and my nose out of muck.’ Shilla pauses to chuck a flint from the furrow and it chinks against the pile under the elm. ‘Your father weren’t so fortunate with his own family, scoundrels they were, though I didn’t know it then, but he weren’t a bad boy. No, we might have been starved half stupid some years and freezed out of our wits every winter, but we knew good and bad. All the children did. That’s what made it such a peculiar thing, what happened.’