Barleygrow

Croccai, Gienghia, Hercua

33rd of Harvest, 266 AP/208th day of 2860 LC

The baby wouldn't stop coughing.

His mother tried what she could, but he mewled and sighed and coughed like his lungs were set to burst from his chest. His father was far away, on a mission from God. It was a warm night, even this late in the year, and the Moon shone bright while the Midnight Sun hid behind the Lower Clouds.

She put the baby down in his cot with his rattle, and slept beside him.

Now the stars were under cloud. The Midnight Sun came out, cast her shadows. The clock slowed, its tick becoming deep and ponderous.

Choom, choom, went the clock, as the light dimmed.

Tap, tap, went the pointed shoes, as they tiptoed across the room. The candlelight showed no shadow.

Cough, cough, went the baby.

Rustle, rustle, went the bony arms as they picked him up.

Shake, shake, went the rattle—

And then—silence.

And an empty crib.

His mother woke as the doors swung open. She grabbed the rattle and she ran, how she ran, after the woman, out of the house, into the deep, dark forest. She ran through the dark, and the wolf-bears watched her. She ran through the woods, and the woodpeckers watched her. She ran to the waterfall—

And the Old Lady watched her.

She looked old. She looked—

—like a pagan goddess of old, young and bright, in ancient forest clothes, her eyes warm with wisdom and care—

—like a wild fox, snuffling and curious, grey and somehow not quite human, something deeper, something darker—

—like a skeleton with saggy skin, grey hair spiked in every direction, wearing ancient clothes, forest clothes, wrong clothes, eyes ablaze with cold blue light—

—and in her arms she held the baby, sound asleep.

(Or so she did hope.)

"Give me back my baby!" shouted the mother.

"Such a pretty thing," said the Old Lady. Her words didn't match the movements of her mouth, and the skeleton grinned and showed half-rotted teeth as her eyes stared straight at the mother. "He wasn't ready for the world outside."

"Give him back!" she repeated.

"My beautiful baby," the Old Lady went on, never looking down at the child. "They were going to leave you to die, weren't they. Leave you to crumble into dust. But I can fix that. I can fix it for you."

"Give him back!" she said, one more time.

And for the first time the Old Lady frowned.

"No."

The Midnight Sun kept rising, and the Old Lady's three forms became stronger, and stronger…

Her mind raced.

There were stories about the Nurses, the Pale Folk, the Merry Ones. How they disliked iron, and hated fire. But neither fire nor iron did she have, only her baby's wooden rattle. They played tricks, and told riddles, and did what they could to keep people in their lands, for in the lands of the Pale Folk time did not pass. And they danced. Oh, how they danced.

And to dance their dance and sing the songs they sang was to accept their ways, and become one with them, and to turn away from God and go to Hell forevermore.

It didn't matter.

She took out the rattle, and started to beat it against her hand.

Shake, shake, shake, shake, went the rattle.

The Old Lady's sharp eyes caught the movement, followed the hands.

The tune welled up inside her, from where she knew not. Perhaps it was part of the Pale Folk's spell.

But it didn't matter.

I bore a child, I birthed a child, she began, singing in a high, clear voice.

The Old Lady cackled madly, tapped her left foot.

You brought a child to join me here, she sang.

All around them, music started to play, on instruments long forgotten. A dome covered the waterfall, of dreams and glass, barely there against the Upper Clouds in the night. And all around them, people started to whisper, in ancient tongues and grandfathers' voices.

I loved a child, I lost a child,

I left a child in yesteryear.

The old woman tapped her right foot.

Around them, the whispers began to dance in earnest, echoing the sound of their song.

I weaned a child, I wiped a child, sang the mother.

I wished a child away to stow, sang the Old Lady, twisting and turning and still holding onto the sleeping baby.

You calmed a child, you cured a child.

Deep green eyes met cold blue eyes.

The dancers stopped.

All was still, and quiet.

I caught a child and let it go, whispered the Old Lady.

She walked forward, and set the baby carefully down on the ground.

Then she stopped. And seemed uncertain.

Then the dance exploded into motion again, music and light and colour pulling itself from deep within their Hells and surrounding the Pale Folk, and the Old Lady was pulled into a ring with the dancers and twisted from shape to shape, it didn't matter what they were—

—and completely missed the mother, pulled by the dance but refusing, refusing, to hear her own Song in her head, picking up the baby and running out from the waterfall, out through the woods, out through the dark—

—and into the dawn.

The baby never coughed ever again, all through his long life.

The mother was never free of the Song, but she kept it to herself, hoping well and truly that it had been worth it and knowing that it was.

And as far as you or I or anyone knows, the Old Lady is dancing still.