Kimper? Now! She had to get free now! Grayling gave a final, frantic pull, and the rope snapped where the mouse had chewed. She struggled to her feet, which were stiff and somewhat numbed from being bound. Gathering up her skirt, she fled into the growing darkness, with the mouse scampering after her.
The rising moon, as full as a flower, played hide-and-seek with Grayling as it darted behind the clouds and out again. Crashing into trunks and ducking under branches, she made her way through the trees to the road, where the mouse, breathing heavily, caught up with her. “This mouse will come with you, Gray Eyes,” it said between pants. “This mouse might yet be of more service to you.”
“Doubtful,” she whispered, “but still . . .” She searched the road for her discarded basket. “Here ’tis.” She dropped the mouse into the basket and ran as fast as her shaking legs would let her. They will not catch me and make a mouse-and-Grayling stew, she vowed. They will not!
When the edge-dwellers’ camp was far behind them, Grayling found a spot off the road for a rest. The mouse climbed out of the basket, bits of watercress stuck to its chin. “I see you have had your supper,” Grayling said. “I would scold you for eating while I ran, but you did save us back there, mousie, so I will not.” She stopped and thought a minute. “I cannot always call you mousie, for you are at times a goat and even a frog, and I know not what is yet to come. Because you rescued me through your shape shifting, I shall call you . . .” She closed her eyes in thought. “Pook. I shall call you Pook.”
The mouse cleaned the remaining bits of herbs from its whiskers. “Pook? Was he too a mouse?”
“Nay. Pookas are fairies, stubborn and annoying but most able shape shifters.”
Pook sighed. “How this mouse loves to hear you speak, Gray Eyes.”
Grayling snorted. How many folks could say they were admired by a mouse?
Darkness fell. It frightened Grayling a bit but also made her feel safer, hidden from anyone following. “I want to go home,” she whispered, but truly she now had no home. The cottage was gone, and her mother was becoming a tree. She snuggled into the roots of an ancient oak as if they were a mother’s arms, and at last she slept. And the mouse watched over her.
III
orning found Grayling, with a mouse asleep in her basket, on the outskirts of a town. Early as it was, folks had gathered to buy and sell, haggle and quarrel, barter and bargain and steal. There were masters looking for servants and servants for masters, young women in search of husbands and young men with anything but marriage on their minds, fortunetellers and fortune seekers, horses and horsemen, shepherds and sheep. Stalls brimmed with apples and parsnips and fresh brown bread, silken laces and amber bracelets, woolen hats and wooden spoons. Never had Grayling been alone among so many things and so many people, so many colors and sounds and scents.
An old woman in russet with a basket of onions strapped to her back pulled on Grayling’s skirt. “Ain’t you the wise woman’s daughter?” the old woman asked. “I seen you with her once. She did help my granny with a cramping in the bowel. Where be she?”
“Not here,” said Grayling.
“Likely to be?”
Grayling remembered the rough, brown bark of her mother’s legs and shook her head. “Nay, not likely. Not likely at all.” She turned to leave, but the woman tightened her hold.
“Be you wise, then? Belike you can help me. I have a wart here on my heel. Hurts summat fierce when I walk.”
A young woman standing nearby heard and approached them. “You be a wise woman?” She looked down at the ground as she spoke. “I have me overmuch sorrow. Woe, oh, woe. Can you cheer me?”
“And me,” said a gnarled old soldier with watery eyes and a crooked nose who stopped beside them. “I worry, worry, worry. Have you a charm or spell to stop the worries?”
“No, no, and no,” said Grayling, backing away. “I have no magic, charms, or spells. I am but the wise woman’s daughter.”
“What do you have?” asked one listener.
“And what can you do?” asked another.
Grayling chewed on her lip in thought. She performed easy tasks—she could gather herbs and make a stew when there was meat, light the candles, and strain the beer. But what could she do to help folk? “My mother has a healing song—”
“She ain’t here, you said,” said the woman with the wart.
“Aye. Still, I’ve heard her sing it many a time. Mayhap I can recall it,” Grayling said. She took a deep breath and, shy and uncertain, began to sing, her voice soft and quavering:
Earth and Mars,
Moon and stars,
Orbs that fill the sky—
Spider webs and
Beetle heads,
Beasts that creep and fly—
Heavenly orbs go by,
Spirits of creatures come nigh.
Bring healing from woe, from pain, from ills,
Let trouble like wind blow by.
“Is that all? What use is a song?” her listeners called, but one of them said, “Sing it again.”
So she did, louder and with fewer quavers.
The old man patted Grayling’s shoulder. “Hearing your sweet voice, I forgot my worries for a while.”