Grayling's Song by Karen Cushman Page B

down next to Auld Nancy. “I have heard my mother sing a song,” she said to the old woman, “that might help with your pains.” She began to chant, slowly and softly:
    Â 
Aches from cold,
    Aches from old,
    Aches, go away.
    Rub rocks and stones,
    And not old bones.
    Aches, go away.
    Let Nancy rest,
    Not feel so old.
    Aches, go away.
    Â 
    After a few moments, Auld Nancy stretched her limbs and smiled. “I believe that did help some. Almost like magic. Gramercy, Grayling.”
    â€œYou would do better to thank Hannah Strong, for it be her song.”
    â€œAye,” Auld Nancy said, “but ’twas your voice and your goodwill.”
    When they were ready for the road once more, Sylvanus helped Auld Nancy onto the mule. Pansy, of course, sulked. Grayling reflected that Pansy was irritating, annoying, and a hindrance on this journey. Why hadn’t Auld Nancy sent her back to her mother? Her mother was a reader of palms. Perhaps she had a grimoire and enough magic to be rooted, too? Was that why Pansy was here?
    No matter the why. Pansy
was
here and walking next to Grayling. “When did you come to Auld Nancy?” Grayling asked.
    â€œâ€™Twas shortly after Lammas Day. My mother sent me to make something of myself.”
    â€œWere you not something already?”
    â€œNot something my mother approves. For the most part, she looks at me and sighs.”
    â€œI know that sigh,” said Grayling, shaking her head. “Feeble Wits, my mother calls me, and Pigeon Liver. Are you now becoming something?” she asked Pansy. “Has your time with Auld Nancy changed you? Are you—”
    Pansy interrupted. “I hope we will be eating soon.”
    Seemingly not, then,
Grayling thought.
    â€œWe turn here,” Sylvanus called, and he led the mule onto a rutted path that headed due south.
    â€œNay,” Grayling said. She gestured to the west. “The grimoire is this way.”
    â€œWe must first call on the widow Bagley, whose cottage is through here. She has a cinnamon and garlic cheese I must sample. Certes, the struggle between the two strong essences will provoke especially powerful visions.”
    While Grayling stuttered “but . . . but . . . but . . .” and pointed west, Desdemona Cork, stumbling over a tree root on the rough and rugged path, asked, “Cheese? We are doing this for cheese?”
    â€œAye. As you know, I am an adept of divination with cheese.”
    â€œI thought that was a silly jest,” said Grayling as she joined the others on the path to the cheese woman’s cottage.
    Sylvanus scowled at her. “Many things,” he said, “have the power to foretell the future or discover what is hidden. Not only cheese but dust, flour, roosters, and ice, if you know how to use them.”
    â€œNay,” said Grayling.
    â€œAye,” said Sylvanus. “Also spiders, pig bladders, and shoes.”
    â€œTruly?” asked Grayling.
    â€œTruly,” said Sylvanus.
    Grayling shook her head. The world outside her valley was full of wondrous things, but was the wonder worth the trouble?

X

    he path narrowed, and wild blackberry bushes on either side reached out to snag Grayling’s hair and her skirt. Soon it curved to reveal a clearing and Widow Bagley’s home. The dwelling was more hut than cottage, and the thatched roof was quickly becoming unthatched. In the yard sheep, goats, and a red cow grazed while tubs and tuns and a big vat bubbled unattended. The cottage door was open—or missing—and from inside came the odor of sour milk and herbs.
    An old woman appeared and beckoned them in.
By pig and pie,
thought Grayling,
she is even older than Auld Nancy, if that be possible.
Desdemona Cork waved the invitation away, Pansy turned away, and Auld Nancy nodded on the mule’s back, but Grayling, curious, followed Sylvanus.
    The cottage was dark and damp, and its sharp, musty smell