The Withy and the Ward
More Otter. Today's chapter picks up immediately from Sunday's, so you'd be advised to read that first.
Thanks for the kind words, everyone who says "press on." But it's not so much that I'm worried about getting the action and characters right -- it's true there's always room to revise that sort of thing. It's that I'm worried about getting the form right. Having spent so much time working on a novel, and then a memoir, that turned out to be a book of poems, I know that the right form is as important than the right content.
Or rather, that the match between them is everything.
Now, I'm sure this is a novel of some kind. But whether it's a fairly common, tight-focus-on-the-POV-character Young Adult novel, which these last two chapters are -- or whether it's a more mythic (Earthsea-ish) "tale" novel, as the prolog is, or whether I still need to find the right form -- I'm not sure. And I'm hesitant to go far without knowing.
But anyway, here's today's stuff. Would appreciate comments.
___________
"We will be silent," Master Cricket said. He said this often, and usually it was as if he said it to cats. But this time, the two dozen children huddled together, and fell silent. Even the little ones, the just-talking twins Nightjar and Heron, the just-running Agate, stopped being fish in nets and became children tangled in fear. Nightjar started to cry, and that was the loudest sound in the tent.
"Good." One of the two younger Rangers smiled. Otter recognized her by the smile: Apple, who'd been a one of them five years ago, a soft-spoken girl with a quirky smile and crooked nose, deadly with a sling or staff. She slung her bow across her back, picked up Nightjar, and wiped his nose with her vambrace.
The third ranger was a woman named Mink, small and dark and quick. She lifted the tent wall, letting clear spring light into the thick-coloured dimness of the weaver's tent. Wordless, she pointed them through.
In a stumbling rush, they crossed the tumbled potato field and the soggy meadow, where goats looked up at them with solemn golden eyes. Nothing followed them: no tap from the woodshop, no clang from the smithy, no rattle of loom or singing of spinners. The huddled tents behind them were hushed. It was a thundery silence, a silence of something building.
Apple and Mink were carrying Nightjar and Heron. Master Cricket followed the younger children, stooped, his arms out, as if he were herding geese. Thistle lead them, carrying a quarterstaff bound in dyed leather, tall as she was.
They were coming to the lichward, and not at the gate.
A line of white birches circled the town, strung like fence posts with blue ribbons, knotted
and knitted together, twined with red and yellow yarns. Ribbons dove into the earth to knot unseen roots. Tiny mirrors and bells shone in the great web like drops of dew.
This was the lichward. It reached three times a horse's height. It thrummed in the cold wind. A little withy fence kept the goats from eating it.
Thistle was lifting the smallest children over the withy, her sleeves falling back to show wrinkled skin and corded muscle. Soon the children were over the fence. They drew together between the two barriers, whispering.
Otter stopped on the meadow side, gripping the top twist of willow fence with her long, grubby fingers. The lichward mirrors seemed to turn on her like eyes. The feeling of inspection tightened her throat.
"Knows you, does it?" Apple swung Nightjar over the fence and set him on his feet. He tottered and toppled, sitting down and starting to sniffle again. "You're a bit young for it. Whose blood?"
Fawn was tugging Nightjar to his feet. "The unbinder's blood," she said. Her voice after all that whispering jerked heads around. "She's Willow's get."
Otter lifted her sharp chin and would have answered, but Mink said: "Not now."
"Certainly not," smiled Thistle. Mink put Heron down next to his twin and took a step back. None of the rangers had crossed the withy. Thistle pulled the long knife from the sheath on her hip and flipped it around, presenting the handle to Cricket.
"Me?" the schoolteacher squeaked. His narrow face looked as if he'd shut it in a door.
"You are mundane as a goat, Master Cricket," Thistle answered. "The ward will do you no harm." Cricket turned around, pressing back against the woven willows, looking small as he tilted his head up at the billowing blue web. "A foot or two at the root should do," said Thistle. "Go on, now."
So Cricket knelt as the children shivered beside him and the Rangers stood behind. He sawed at a blue ribbon, just were it disappeared into the ground. It frayed, and then snapped. The free end whipped up and writhed. A few of the little bells sounded. Cricket froze. Everyone froze. Mirrors flashed and sent darts of light flying.
"Quickly," whispered Mink.
Cricket closed his eyes, and cut another strand, another, and another. Otter winced and winced, feeling her skin tighten as if the knife were cutting her. Suddenly a knot gave and there was a hole in weaving, big enough to crawl through. A gust moaned through the ribbons and the birch trees stirred.
"Everyone through now," said Apple, "Master Cricket –" But Cricket had already wiggled through the hole like a rabbit under a fence, and was taking hands, pulling the children through one at a time.
Mink took Otter's arm as she started to swing over the withy. "You last, I think." Otter pulled free, proud and silent. "No," said Thistle. "I'll go last. But you next, Mink. Take care."
Otter watched as Mink and Apple pushed their weapons through the gap, and then, holding their bodies tucked and tight, let Cricket pull them through. Above them the ward stirred. Bells chuckled. Mirrors eyes turned. Otter held her breath. Stripes of shadow lashed across her face.
Then it was her turn. She lay down in the bent, frost-grey grass. A smell of thaw clung to the damp thatch. Above her the cut ends of the ribbons stirred. She thought of spider silk snaking through air, looking for something to catch. She tensed against the ground. She reached under the searching strands. Cricket took her wrists, and dragged her.
But as she went under, one of the loose ribbons brushed her face. It came alive, searching, and seized her ear as an infant seizes a finger. Otter jerked a hand free to yank the ribbon lose – and another strand took her wrist. A rustle came from the ward, soft and huge. She turned her head and saw the nearest birches bending to meet, above her, the web sagging, reaching to catch – she shouted and tore her hands free, tearing strands from her wrists and ears and throat and eyes –
And the ward tore open. Otter scrambled up and Thistle grabbed her and dragged her behind the others, who were running towards the firebreak, the woods beyond. Between the two birches the ward hung torn as a spiderweb, knots undone. Long strands snaked through the air. Around the town the rest of the ward shuddered. The birch trees twisted and moaned. All around the ward, tiny bells rang like sleet falling.
Those that knew that sound covered their ears, or sobbed in terror.
3 Comments
Speaking as someone who has stood by while his cast of characters for “Fathom Five” dwindled from hundreds, to dozens, to just three, I wouldn’t worry too much about form at this early stage. You warned me yourself that it is too early to start revising; just write. The form will find itself. I think you’ve started something wonderful, here, so just follow this strand and see where it takes you.
I think the most important thing is for a writer to be a story teller. All the best writers are great story tellers. In Otter you show you have truly mastered the art of story telling. What you’ve got reads well, makes me want more (the kind of book you can’t put down) and sounds great read aloud!
The magic is a bit dark — you’ve been reading the Abhorsen again, haven’t you? :)