Authors: Robin McKinley
hours were spent working, and much of the evening also, mending clothes and tools and bits of this and that by firelight. “This and that” for most of the spring had consisted of my taking over most of the necessary sewing to free Grace, who was the finer seamstress, to work secretly on an embroidered counterpane for the wedding.
The work had broken down into a routine for each of us. Ger worked in the smithy; his ability was such that before the first winter was past there were people traveling thirty miles to come to him.
Father’s
old skill with wood had gradually returned to his fingers and brain, The tiny lean-to that was built against the blacksmith’s shop was enlarged, and Father built carts and cabinets there, and patched roofs and walls in town. His hair had turned snow-white, and he moved more slowly than he once had; but he carried himself tall and straight, and he could talk and laugh again. And I suspected Melinda of falling in love with him. He was gentle and courtly to her, as he was to all women, including his daughters; but I thought he displayed a special grace for Melinda. And she, who was simple and kind and forthright, blushed often when he spoke to her, and twisted her hands in her apron like a girl.
Grace and Hope divided the house-work between them, and I did what was left over, the odds and ends that were neither house-work nor shop-work; and often thought that it would have been much more
convenient if I had been a boy—not least because I already looked like one. Ger and I and Greatheart pulled fallen trees out of the eaves of the forest, and Ger taught me to split wood, chop it, and stack it.
This was the greatest portion of my work, for there were several fireplaces in the house and two more in the sheds to provide fuel for, plus charcoal to cook; and the forge fire, and the kitchen fire, had to burn whatever the weather.
My big horse’s strength grew famous, and several times that first year we dragged some undraggable object from where it was stuck fast: an old stump clinging bale-fully to the soil, a wagon sunk axle deep in
spring mud. We also hauled wood for some of the people who lived in town; and in exchange we were sent home with beer and blankets—we were southerners, and correctly presumed tender—and mincemeat pies at the holidays. I never really had time to think about the suitability of my new role, or of
how it had come about. I was becoming more boy than girl, it seemed; and perhaps since I was short and plain and had no figure to speak of the townsfolk found my ambiguous position easy enough to accept. The men took their caps off to my sisters, curbed their ribald tongues, and some of them even made rough bows; I was hailed with a wave and a grin, and familiarly called “Beauty,” The name had been adopted without the flicker of an eye, so far as I could see: like that of the fierce yellow mastiff who
looked after the Red Griffin, who answered, if she was called reverently enough and was in the mood, to the name of “Honey.” When Great-heart had hauled yet another malignant old stump out of the ground,
and the two of us, plus the owner of the land and all his neighbours, were covered with dirt and splinters,
I was clapped on the back and given mugs of small beer.
When spring came I dug up the garden and planted it, and weeded it, and prayed over it, and fidgeted; and almost three years of lying fallow had agreed with it, because it produced radishes the size of onions, potatoes the size of melons, and melons the size of small sheep. The herb border ran wild, and
the air smelled wonderful; the breezes often stirred the piney, mossy smell of the forest with the sharp smell of herbs, mixed in the warm smell of fresh bread from the kitchen, and then flung the result over the
meadow like a handful of new gold coins. I pruned the apple trees—there were also the remains of an old orchard, and a few of the trees were still productive—and had high hopes of the next winter full of apple jelly.
3
Ger had made us all promise—although I ! was the only one who had any inclination , that needed to be curtailed—never to walk I in the woods behind our house without either him or Father for company; the latter reference was courtesy only, because Father was no woodsman. I assumed that Ger meant deep forest, and one afternoon wandered into the first fringe of the big trees with horse and cart, picking
up dead wood to be cut up for the house fires; the light scrub that had grown up around the meadow the
house sat in had been cut down and burned during our first few weeks here. But Ger saw me from the shop window and came after me, angry; I
was surprised to see him angry and explained that I did not mean to disobey orders, and that I was well in sight of the house—indeed, as he had seen me. He relented, but said that he did not want me walking even this near the tall forest trees. This conversation took place during our first autumn, and the leaves were red and gold; it was cold enough already for our breath to hang visible in the air.
He looked up at the tree we were standing under, and sighed. “I’m probably being over-cautious, but I’d rather it were that than foolhardy.” He paused, and rubbed a hand over his chin, considering me.
“Have you ever wondered why ours is the only house out this end of town—a. full quarter mile from the next house in? And why we take all our drinking water from the well on the hill, when a good stream runs
right by the house?”
I stared at him, not expecting mysteries. The stories of the north I had heard in the city had swiftly faded once we had become country dwellers ourselves, and we had been troubled by no goblins. “Not really,” I said. “I suppose I thought that the town grew up where it did, and the first smith liked his privacy; and perhaps the stream water isn’t good, though good enough to pour over hot iron.”
‘‘It’s not quite so simple,” said Ger, and looked a little embarrassed. “The story is the wood’s haunted. No, not haunted: enchanted. The stream flows out of the forest, as you see, so likely it’s enchanted too, if anything is. The first smith—well, tales vary. Perhaps he was a wizard. He was a good smith, but he disappeared one day. He’s the one built the house—said he liked the forest, and a forge needs a stream close by, and most of the town gets its water by well. The next smith—the one that left two years ago—dug the well we’ve got now, to prevent the water’s enchanting him; but he didn’t like the
noises the forest made after dark. Well, forests do make odd noises after dark. Anyway, he left. And they’ve had some trouble finding someone else. That’s how we got this place so cheaply: It’s very good for what we had to spend.”
“I’ve never heard anything about all this,” I said, “Are you sure you’re not making it all up to scare me into obedience? It won’t work, you know; it’ll only make me mad.”
He grinned. “Oh, I’m aware of your temper, Beauty, you needn’t fear. And I am telling you the truth—you have the sort of mind that prefers to know things.” He said this somewhat wryly; I often pestered him to explain what he was doing and why, when he was using me m the shop; he yielded to my
persistence eventually, and I learned to make charcoal, and could shoe a horse, if the horse cooperated.
“I’m also going to ask you not to mention this to your family; your father already knows a bit, but your sisters don’t. It’ll come up eventually, I suppose, but I’d rather we lived here a little longer and were comfortable here first. It’s a good thing for us, we’re doing well; it would be a pity to let silly tales scare us.” There was a touch of pleading in his voice that surprised me. “I’m just taking a little—precaution.”
“Silly tales,” I said. “I haven’t heard anything about any of this except what you’re saying.”
“Of course not. Think about it. Blue Hill has wanted a smith; now they’ve got one, I’ll even say a good one, and they don’t want to scare him off. After all, if this wood is enchanted, it hasn’ t done anything in over a hundred years—maybe it’s not really enchanted, or maybe it used to be, or maybe it still is, but if we don’t disturb it, it won’t harm us. And the townsfolk aren’t really hiding anything from us;
I’m from around here, you know, and Melinda reminded me of this place’s history when she wrote me about it.” He paused.
“What was it that happened over a hundred years ago?” I asked.
The light was failing fast, and die rays from the setting sun lit the autumn-coloured woods to royal hues, and warmed the dun-coloured house to copper. Through the kitchen window I could see a figure in
a skirt standing before the fire. Ger took Greatheart’s bridle and led him a little way along, following the edge of die forest but moving away from the house.
“Well now,” he said at last, and when he glanced at me again his smile was sheepish. “You’ll laugh, and I won’t blame you. I grew up near here, and the tales you hear in your cradle stay with you whether you will or nay.
“It’s said there’s a castle in a wild garden at the centre of these woods; and if you ever walk into the trees till you are out of sight of the edge of the forest and you can see nothing but big dark trees all around you, you will be drawn to that castle; and in the castle there lives a monster. He was a man once, some tales say, and was turned into a terrible monster as a punishment for his evil deeds; some say he was born that way, as a punishment to his parents, who were king and queen of a good land but cared only for their own pleasure.”
“Like the Minotaur,” I murmured.
“The which?”
“Minotaur. It’s an old Greek legend. What does the monster look like?”
“No two tales agree on that. My mother made me mind her with stories of a bear with foot-long claws; my best friend’s mother made him mind because a great boar would come and carry him away on its long tusks if he didn’t. And the first owner of the public house here thought it was a griffin. Whatever it
is, it must have a mighty appetite. The tale also goes that no hunter ever finds game in there; and you know our garden is curiously free of rabbits and woodchucks—and that in itself is uncanny. And never a deer do you see, and no man has taken one from this forest in the memory of the oldest grandfather’s memories of his childhood’s tales. There aren’t even any squirrels here, and squirrels will live anywhere.”
The sun was almost gone now; firelight sent a warm glow through the windows, and left golden footprints in the garden. Father went whistling into the parlour with an arm-load of my afternoon’s exertions over the woodpile. He paused at the door and called across to us: “You going back to the shop, Ger? I’ve not closed up.”
“Aye,” Ger called back. Father went on inside.
“Now, I want your solemn promise,” said Ger. “First, that you’ll not go scaring your sisters with these stories I’ve—foolishly, I suppose—told you. And second, that you will stay out of this forest.”
I scowled at the ground. I disliked promises on principle because my conscience made me keep them. “I’ll say nothing to my sisters,” I said, and paused. “If the magic is dangerous to anyone, it’s dangerous to you too; I’ll stay out if you will.”
Ger didn’t like that; then he grinned suddenly. “You’re half witch yourself, I sometimes think; the forest would probably leave you alone. Okay, I promise. And you?”
“Yes,” I said, and went to unload the cart, and put Greatheart away in his stable. Ger was still in the shop when I was finished. He looked up when I entered, “Eh?” he said. “I’ll be along in a minute.”
“Ger—why did you tell me the story about the forest?”
Ger raised the hammer he was using and studied the signs of wear on its head. “Well now,” he said thoughtfully. “I have a very high opinion of your obstinacy; and I knew I’d never get a promise of obedience from you without telling you the truth of it. I’m not a very good liar—and that old forest makes
me nervous.” He grinned a small boy’s grin suddenly and added: “I think it’ll be a relie f to me to be on my oath to stay out of it; I won’t have to think up my own good reasons anymore. Tell your sisters I’ll be in in a minute.”
* * *
I saddled Greatheart and led him out, his big feet leaving not-quite-regular saucer marks in the frosty grass. I hesitated as we came to the stream; we usually went around the shop near the stream, then up the little hill towards the town, and I’d haul us water from the well when we rode by it. Today I led the horse to the stream, and waited, watching him: He lowered his head, wrinkled his black nose at the running water, and blew; then he lowered his muzzle and drank. He didn’t turn into a frog, nor into a griffin and fly away. He raised his head, slobbering over his last mouthful, and pricked his ears at me without any awareness of having done something out of the ordinary. I walked a pace or two upstream avid knelt to scoop up some water with my hands, looping the reins over my wrist. The water was so cold it made my teeth ache with the shock; but it was sweet and very good, better than the dull water from the respectable well. I didn’t turn into a frog either, and when I stood up the landscape looked just as it always had. I mounted and we jogged slowly off.
* * *