Authors: Judith Merkle Riley
“They are going the long way,” said the boy, “and all the singing slows them down. I know a shorter way, where there's no path. That way we won't miss the best part.”
“And what is this best part?” asked Madame, fully expecting for the boy to show a row of sharp, cannibal teeth when he smiled.
“It's the petitioning to the pond-thing, and the offering of the sacrifices.” Madame kept her face impassive. “What sacrifices are those?” she asked. “Oh, every family in the village has made a little offering, a bread dolly baked at the hearth, all painted and wrapped up. We're giving the pond-thing a chicken, too.”
“Why are Mesdemoiselles Cécile and Alison riding there on the heifer?”
“Oh, they have to go. Since the midwife died, there has been no one with the power to call the sacred eel—until they came. We thought we were ruined, without a priestess of the pond.”
“The sacred eel?”
“Oh, yes. The eel is how the pond speaks, and lets us know it will grant our petitions. Oh, lady, if you only knew the trouble that has fallen on this village. The apples are almost lost, there's a blight on the rye, and now there's a murrain in the next shire, and we could lose all our beasts. How will we plow, if the cattle are gone, lady? We'll starve.”
A great suspicion had begun to grow in Madame's mind. The suspicion that the girls had become involved in a prank whose enormity boggled her mind. The disappearances on Old Brownie, the growing numbers of grooms anxious to accompany them “for safety,” the curious enlargement of Alison's figure due to the honey seed cakes old women pressed upon her when she visited the village, all were explained. Then there was the wonderful pair of shoes made from a vixen's skin, dyed green and all embroidered and pricked about with strange designs, that had been presented to Cecily. Those little devils, she thought. How shameless! How wicked! They've been extorting things from these poor, desperate, ignorant folk. All the while they sewed on that altarcloth with innocentseeming faces! Pure fury strengthened Madame, and she stood up from the boundary stone.
“Show me that shortcut immediately,” she said.
By the time Madame had reached the sight of the temple of dark yews, the pathless “shortcut” had taken its toll. Madame's light slippers were shredded, and her feet sore and bleeding. Her gown had snagged and torn at the worn places, and the branches had snatched away her kerchief several times. Her gray hair was wild around her face, and she had given up on the remaining pins, which she stored at her bosom, retying her kerchief like a peasant, for security. But where it was a matter of propriety, she would never give up. And this, she was sure, involved nothing but the deepest of improprieties.
As they came within sight of the strange, gray ruins of an old stone hermitage, she saw a white mare wandering untethered in the woods. Margaret's little mare, that she'd brought up from London, all stained with sweat, and blood at her flanks. How strange,
thought Madame, who had not seen Lady Petronilla ride out the gate. Margaret never wears spurs. She caught at the horse's reins and lead it away to a concealed brushy spot, tethering it to a straggling branch that dipped down from an ancient oak.
“You see?” whispered the boy, exactly as if they were in a church, “I told you we'd get here ahead of them.” Together they walked between the strange columns of the yew-temple at the far end of the pond. Madame recognized it immediately for the pagan place it was, and disapproved. But because she was not at her full strength, the strange tree-temple and ever-flowing spring began to work on her. So these are the trees that the Sieur de Vilers does not want cut, she began by thinking. They are monstrous ugly, and should be sold off as soon as possible, and something wholesome built here. But as the whispering leaves and the sound of the rushing water soothed her senses, the deep, woody smell of the forest seemed to call up something in her that she did not want to acknowledge. At her feet, a patch of sun shone on a clump of wild grasses by the stony ruins, and she saw the tiny blue faces of forget-me-nots peeping up at her from their hiding place among the weeds. In the distance, a bird sang—long, liquid trills that made her heart ache. I have been so long without love, she thought. Duty, you are a cold bedfellow.
“My lady, hide!” whispered the boy, tugging at her sleeve, and together they ducked into the ruins.
“What is it?” she whispered back, as she looked out across the huge, ovoid rock and spied movement in the clearing at the far side of the green waters.
“The succubus. Oh, lady, she has returned. She'll destroy them all.” The figure across the pond swayed and danced. Her face was veiled with a black veil, and she wore a black cloak over a black gown. The hems of her garments swirled about her bare, white feet as she danced. Narrow, slender white arms reached from the whirling black garments toward the sky. The thing bowed and dipped toward the water, and they could hear tuneless, mindless chanting. The boy crossed himself, but Madame smiled a very strange little smile indeed. As the creature had bowed and whirled at the
edge of the water, the veil had slipped away for a moment from the face, and Madame had recognized her.
“What does this succubus do?” she asked, and the boy marveled at her self-possession.
“Gives men pleasure until they die,” said the boy.
“She can hardly manage a whole villageful at once,” said Madame, her voice frosty.
“But my lady, she is an infernal creature, from the realms of hell itself. It is she that has blighted the pond, and blighted our crops. The priest told us, before he, well, went away.”
“Hmm,” said Madame, thinking. That explains the spurs. What a nasty little trick, taking that mare when the lords are gone. That woman envies everybody everything. And why not envy Margaret most of all? Margaret has everything, money, love, beautiful children, the respect of all. Sometimes I'm even a little envious of her myself. What did she ever do for all these good things? I know well she must have started life as a poor girl, not of good family, like me… Madame stopped herself suddenly. Envy, you ugly sin, get away from me, she prayed silently. Angels of heaven, strengthen me. This story is not over yet, and I have sworn to keep those girls safe. She looked down, and hidden behind a fallen stone at her feet, she saw a spot of white. Curious, she pulled at it. It was a linen bag with something bundled in it. The angels have answered, she thought. I'll just keep this bag.
But ahead of them, she could hear the faint sound of singing, and the crash and clatter of people coming through the forest. The black thing at the water seemed oblivious to these first faint sounds. The boy recoiled in horror, but Madame poked her head up above the level of the ruined wall, fascinated by the impending confrontation. First there was a cry, “The succubus!” and several tall lads burst out from among the trees with their knives drawn. The figure in black started and turned. A little boy darted out and threw a rock which hit square in the middle of the veil, and the black thing recoiled with a cry.
“It's mortal, kill it!” a woman shrieked.
“Death to the bringer of blight!”
“Slay it, slay it!” The cries were fiercer now.
“Protect the little ladies from it!” cried other voices. Swiftrunning boys tried to surround the thing as it fled, pelting it all the while with rocks. Covering its veiled head with its arms, it outran them, but as they watched, they could see a red stain trickling on white.
“It bleeds, it bleeds!” and while the little boys pursued it until it vanished, the village matrons led the white heifer to the edge of the pond.
That woman certainly can run when she wants to, thought Madame. And she's chased off in the wrong direction, too. I doubt she'll dare come back for her horse and bag while this crowd remains by the water. She looked about her, and realized her little guide had departed for the other side of the pond.
Cecily and Alison had dismounted, looking rather annoyed at the disturbance of their splendid festivity. But then one of the boys returned, carrying a knife.
“Look, little maidens, you've frightened off the evil spirit. She dropped her knife, all red with the blood of her victims. Now her evil spell is vanquished.” Two peasant men took the knife, and, bowing deeply, presented it to the little girls, who accepted it with a knowing smugness that made Madame, all the way across the pond and hidden in the ruins as she was, nearly burst with fury. But there was no knight to aid her, and the crowd of peasants clearly did not want their little goddesses hauled away by their disrespectful little ears.
Madame's anger boiled and bubbled nearly as fiercely as the spring in the center of the pond as she watched the little girls step into the water, holding a garland and singing. She bit her lip in pure fury when she heard the song, a very ancient
chanson de toile
which she had taught them herself in French. This old ballad, used to while away the time by the ladies of great chateaux as they wove, was an entirely secular love ballad. Those unholy little brats know full well these peasants do not understand a word of French, especially old French, and think it's some sacred invocation in an ancient language.
Oh! No wonder they quit complaining of being bored of late! Sir Gilbert warned me about them, but even he could not convey the absolute
shamelessness
of their conduct to me! It's beyond the bounds of language! How could I have been so blind! They've deceived me! They've deceived their mother!
Now the girls offered the garland to the pond, and as it floated toward the swirling green waters around the boiling center, they loaded up their hands with the offerings the peasants pressed on them. As they waded into the water, the crowd around them shouted, “Preserve our beasts! Restore our crops!” and the girls flung the offerings as far out as they could toward the center of the pond. The little fools, thought Madame, if they go any farther, they might get sucked in. But just as she was thinking that thought, something happened that made her blood run cold.
The fountain made a sound like, “glub, gulp, glorp,” and coughed a bit of muddy stain, then stopped boiling and pushing up fresh, sweet water. A dark, horrible shadow slipped through the silent green water toward the girls. Without even thinking, Madame found herself reciting the Paternoster, over and over again, as the shadow swirled and swam about the girls' knees. Madame couldn't make out what it was, but the welcoming shouts of the crowd made it clear that it was the sacred eel. That must be the biggest eel in the whole world, she thought. How old is it? How long has it lived in that hole? What on earth does it eat? Good lord, she thought. It lives on bread dollies, and chickens, and the occasional priest. Her skin crawled with horror. How could the girls let it near them? She thought of Cecily, fearless in the tree. Too young to know what to be terrified of, she thought. They have got into a dangerous game now. Even the peasants don't dare step into the water here.
But now the dark shadow quit swirling around the girls's shins and silently undulated toward the center of the pond.
“We're answered!” cried an old woman.
“Saved!” the peasants cried, as Cecily and Alison got out of the water, the hems of their smocks wringing wet. Madame noticed that Cecily had the knife tucked in her belt. Then the most curious thing
happened. There was a happy sort of glub, glub, glub sound, and garlands, floating chicken carcass, and all the other trash that had been tossed into the pond was sucked to the center and vanished. Then, with a gurgle, a spit of water danced into the air, and the spring at the center of the pond resumed its boiling, bubbling activity.
Having seen enough, and having reassured herself that the girls were in no immediate danger, Madame limped off, carrying the bag, to find the hidden spot where she had tethered Margaret's horse. I'm older, she thought, and it will do that woman good to walk barefoot back to Brokesford Manor. Before mounting, she peeped into the bag, and found exactly what she thought she would. Two sharp spurs, a pair of soft leather boots, and a beautifully dagged and embroidered green hunting surcoat. Hmph, thought Madame. I wonder how she'll explain that black veil when she gets home. What antics! I can't believe they've tolerated her this long. A houseful of men, led by the nose by a crazy woman. As she rode through the golden light of the late afternoon, Madame thought of what she must do while she took great pleasure in the easy, pacing gait of Margaret's little mare. It had been a very, very long time since Madame had ridden a fine pacing palfrey, and she was enjoying every minute of it.
THE LONG SHADOWS
of the ending day were lying across the outer courtyard when Lady Petronilla staggered in through the gate. Madame was long since returned, her story told, and Margaret's horse in the stable. It was Petronilla's misfortune that the first person she met was Margaret, all wrapped up in her big apron, and carrying a very large ladle. Behind Margaret was Sir Hubert's steward, a man of good family although not of legitimate birth, as well as several men and women fresh from the malt-house. Lady Petronella had tucked her black veil about her hair, but nothing could conceal that she was barefoot and bleeding from a cut on the arm and one on the forehead. Her eyes were wild, and her breath came in uneven gusts.
“Your vicious horse threw me,” she snapped at Margaret. “I want
its throat cut immediately. It is a menace. Do you hear me? I order it! Now!” Margaret looked at her with calm, disdainful eyes.
“My horse not only threw you, it changed your hunting surcoat for that black thing, and stole your boots in the bargain. Very clever for a horse. I give orders, here and now, that mare of mine is not to be touched until the lord of the manor hears this case.”
“And who is mistress here? I say, find that horse where it is wandering, and bring it back and kill it.”
“And I say, no creature alive can be condemned without a trial. Sir Hubert can hear my mare's case at the next manorial court.”
“And I'll show my wounds—my condition,”cried Lady Petronilla.
“My dear lady sister-in-law, if you pardon me, your ‘condition’ is slipping. This morning it rode high, and this afternoon it's as low as a nine-month pregnancy ready to deliver. I would not be surprised if your condition, this time, is a pillow.”