Grayling's Song by Karen Cushman

said, “Nay, I have no need of a book for my spells. All my knowledge is stored here.” He tapped his head with a bony finger.
    â€œLikely that is why you have not been rooted,” said Grayling.
    Sylvanus smoothed his beard, smiled, and said, “Be of good cheer, fair mistresses. After hearing your sad tale, I shall favor you with my company for a time.”
    C
ompany?
Just
company?
“Can you do nothing to help?” Grayling asked him. “About the rooted folk and the grimoires, the smoke and shadow and the mysterious wind? Do you have no useful skills?”
    The magician’s eyes snapped. “I cannot combat the evil force until I know what it is,” he said, “where it is from, why it was sent. That will take cogitation, consideration, contemplation, rumination. I cannot be hurried.”
    Grayling was not satisfied, but Sylvanus turned from her and whistled. A small spotted mule trotted out from between the trees.
Pook? Is it Pook? Is he now Pook the mule?
Grayling patted the herbs in her basket and was relieved to feel the shape of a sleeping toad. Nay, not Pook.
    Sylvanus tightened the saddlebags that clanked against the mule’s rough and dusty sides. “Shall we depart?”
    Grayling, Auld Nancy, Desdemona Cork, and Pansy looked at each other, at Sylvanus, and then back at each other. Finally Auld Nancy shrugged and nodded.
    As Sylvanus started to climb onto the mule, Grayling pulled on his tunic. “Do you not think,” she asked in a soft voice, “Auld Nancy might ride? Her bones pain her something fierce.”
    â€œNay,” said Auld Nancy, with a shake of her head. “Better for the beast to carry Pansy. She is most pale and frail-looking of a sudden, though I cannot think why.”
    Pansy was to ride? Grayling thought that would be excellent, if only Pansy would ride elsewhere. Away. Anywhere but there.
    â€œFoolish coddling,” said Sylvanus, grabbing the mule’s lead. “The girl is young enough to be strong and hardy. As they say, ‘a new shoe lasts longer than an old.’ Why, in my day, we not only did not ride mules, we sometimes carried them on our shoulders, for animals were precious and to be cared for, whereas we teemed with young people.” He combed his beard thoughtfully with his fingers. “I remember once when I had two beasts to pack over the Hermantine Pass in winter—”
    â€œEnough,” Auld Nancy said, and she shook her broom at him. “Enough talk from you. Hailstones and thunder clouds! I don’t know if you have more words or more tears, but they both try my patience.”
    Sylvanus scowled while Pansy climbed onto the mule. “What be in here?” Pansy asked, poking the saddle-bags. “They do be lumpy and uncomfortable under a rider.”
    â€œLeave off my belongings, wretched girl,” said Sylvanus, and he swatted her hands away. Pansy snorted and settled onto the mule’s back.
    Auld Nancy was right, Grayling thought. Pansy definitely ailed. She’d lost her rosy plumpness. Her eyes were ringed with shadows, and she hadn’t whined or mentioned food in minutes.
    As they left, Grayling turned to take a last look at the flowers Sylvanus had conjured. The bush was black and blighted, the lovely blooms shriveled. “Magic always has a price,” said Auld Nancy.
    Grayling turned away, took a deep breath, and once more sang to her grimoire. The grimoire sang back. “Hurry. This way,” she said to her companions, and they followed her, heading away from the sunrise—west, the grimoire sang them ever west.
    Their steps grew slower as the morning wore on, and now and then one of them stopped to rub one sore body part or another. Every sound made Grayling startle and look around, but other travelers were few and none seemed apt to threaten them.
    By late morning, the sun had dried her cloak a bit, but the sun beat fiercely on the back of her neck. She