Grimenna Read online

  “Look at all the Mummers,” she exclaimed at the disguised revelers. “Look at the costumes!”

  “How are you sure some of them are costumes?” he teased. “I’ll be waiting for you at the baker’s shop by midnight. You had better not have too much wine and forget.” As they joined the Mummers, Paiva gazed around in awe. There were faces flickering through the bonfire light about her—shaggy shapes covered in furs and feathers and leaves. She thought it could very well be that there were spirits walking amongst them that night, unnoticed in the multitude of creature costumes, laughing and dancing and drinking about her.

  “Mr. Ibbie!” a tall man in a beaked mask called out. The man was dressed in a brown linen cloak, and when he raised a tankard of ale in greeting, long strands of cloth mimicking feathers fell from his elbows to the ground. She recognized the voice and the costume as those belonging to Wernard Weeler, the miller who her father was great friends with. He wore the same disguise every year, and his red beard stuck out defiantly from below his mask.

  He offered Viviel a drink and they fell into talk, laughing and enjoying the spectacle before them. There were musicians gathered on a stage piled with sprigs of flowers and ribbons: a wolf with antlers played the fiddle, a goat with wings kept rhythm on a heavy skin drum, and an ox with a crown of woven barley wailed on a set of pipes. There were figures about the fire dancing in pairs and by themselves. Wine and ale ran freely from barrels propped against the musician’s stage and there were lanterns and lights glowing from every post and hanging from the garlands of flowers.

  There were candles behind the windows of houses that invited Mummers in for drinks and jokes; those that were unwelcoming were dark. There were packs of Mummers that gathered and went from house to house, drinking freely until their identities were uncovered and they were thrown out to move on to the next house or return to the fire for dancing. The air was rich with laughter and music, and shrill delighted screams rang out when someone was spooked or tricked.

  Paiva’s father finished his drink and saw Paiva off with the miller’s daughter, Rorna. Rorna simply had an old sack of flour stuck over her head with slits cut out for eye holes and hay stuffed out the bottom of it and from her coat sleeves. She had on her father’s old straw hat and wore his britches which were too long for her and held up by lengths of rope over her shoulders. Paiva laughed at her costume, and Rorna explained the delights of wearing men’s clothes.

  The first house they visited belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Switch who brewed ale and were both muscular and strapping from hauling barrels. Mrs. Switch was middle-aged, her forearms the same size as her bearded husband’s. They both called each other Switch because they were inseparable and often when they drank too much ale they couldn’t remember the others real name anyways. Mrs. Switch studied the two visitors as she poured them each a mug of their own spiced brew.

  “The only thing I can see of who’s hiding under them costumes is a pair of green eyes and a pair of brown,” she mused. “Must be a pair of sweethearts eh, Switch?” She laughed to her husband. Rorna thrust out her straw stuffed chest and swaggered over to Mrs. Switch where she promptly sat on her knee and began trailing a finger over the woman’s whiskered chin. Mrs. Switch threw back her head and bellowed a hearty laugh while her husband watched worriedly.

  “Been a long time since I had a young lad sit on my knee,” she laughed, then with a thick hand reached up and pulled off the flour sack, revealing Rorna’s smiling face and the tumble of her curling russet hair. Both Mr. and Mrs. Switch boomed in laughter.

  “Why it’s Rorna Weeler!’ Mr. Switch thumped his fist on the table. Paiva lifted the bottom of her mask to take a swig of the delicious ale, and Mr. Switch narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to try and glimpse the shape of her face.

  “By my soul, that one is none other than Paiva Ibbie!” he bellowed. Paiva nodded happily and watched as Mrs. Switch levered Rorna over her shoulder and carried her out the house. She set her on the front steps, then grabbed her broom and chased them both off with it.

  “Ha!’ she bellowed, “Haven’t been fooled by a Mummer yet.” Paiva and Rorna laughed as they ran on to the next house. In each house they visited they were given a drink of wine while the patron studied them and either laughed or marveled at their costumes.

  — «» —

  Mrs. Switch headed back indoors, shaking her head in mirth, to sit back down at their table to await the next visitors. She left the door wide open and readied another brew to serve. Mr. Switch heartily threw back his head and downed the rest of his drink. Upon lowering his mug he startled at a figure that appeared suddenly in the doorway and nearly spat out his swallow of ale.

  He wiped the spittle from his mouth and offered the stranger a seat at the table. “Halloo Mummer,” Mrs. Switch regaled and came to sit down again. She peered at the Mummer and tried to discern who might be hiding beneath the costume. It was a man, she knew, for he was tall and broad in the shoulder. He remained for a moment, unmoving in the doorway, staring at them from beneath his strange mask. Mrs. Switch beckoned him to sit down again and silently he stepped closer.

  Without warning a chill swept over her. He was dressed in pale white robes and beneath he wore fine clothes, finer than any peasant could ever afford. The mask he wore resembled a ghoulish creature that might have been half-cat and half-owl, and it was covered in such perfectly placed tiny feathers and hairs that Mrs. Switch had to blink again and marvel at its craftsmanship. There was a mane of white hair about it, covering his neck and running down his back where it began to mix with pale feathers. It was the eyes that chilled her, for they were dark as coals. The Mummer sat but didn’t touch his drink, staring at them while they silently absorbed him and tried to discern his identity.

  “Show us your hands,” Mr. Switch said testily. The Mummer cocked his head curiously at them, then raised both his pale hands palm up. Both his palms were smooth and unmarked and Mrs. Switch smiled to know he was not branded. She began listing names quickly to distract him from being offended, thinking only of the rich merchants she knew, for no one else would be able to afford such a costume. The Mummer shook his head at each one, his eyes never wavering.

  Their session was cut short when more Mummers appeared at the door. The white Mummer rose and Mrs. Switch was almost sure his mask was smiling at them.

  “I don’t have a clue,” she said, readily hoping he would soon be gone. The other Mummers stepped out of his way as he passed and left the dwelling to head out into the square.

  Mrs. Switch looked to Mr. Switch, who absently touched his forehead to ward off ill luck. She broke into another wild cackle and poured ale for the new visitors, ushering them in to rid the room of the chill the stranger had left behind him.

  — «» —

  A few houses in and both Paiva and Rorna were tipsy and flushed from the wine. Paiva did not care for Mummering; she wanted to search the crowd by the fire for Ramsi. She excused herself, saying she wanted to dance, and returned to the bonfire while Rorna careened off with other Mummers to visit the next house.

  She knew it was him by his boots. She had memorized every facet of his person, down to the polished fine leather and silver spurs on his heels. He strode towards her from across the fire and she saw his dark eyes glitter beneath his fox faced mask. When he was before her, he tilted his head curiously.

  “Is it you?” he asked, his breath sweet with wine. She bent her head back up to him and let him study her. He lifted his hands and pushed his fingers into her hair, gently searching for the string to undo her disguise. She stiffened as she felt the ribbon let go, only for a second remembering she had promised her mother not to take her mask off. But then the warmth of him so near sent her heart beating deafeningly into her ears, drowning out all distant echoes of her mother’s warning.

  “Is it you?” he asked again. He lifted the mask from her face.

  “Oh, Paiva!” she
heard him laugh behind his fox face. He looked down at the mask in his hands. “And who are you supposed to be?”

  “A spirit of the meadows,” she said. Her voice seemed small in her throat, for she realized then that he had been hoping it was someone else. She took her mask back from him and tied it back around her head.

  Someone came up to him and slid their hand in his. It was a woman clearly, for she wore a pale dress fitted tightly with a bodice stitched with feathers. Her face was disguised behind that of a feminine cat mask, sequins caught the firelight and glowed beneath the eye hollows. Paiva felt herself sneering behind her own mask, recognizing the flow of darkly curled hair that tumbled down to the woman’s waist. It was Miriel, a lawyer’s daughter who lived in a stone house in the middle of the village. She looked at Paiva through the eyeholes of her expensive mask, gave out a sharp laugh, and pulled Ramsi away to the fire where he took her in his arms and led her into a dance.

  Paiva swallowed a bitter taste in her mouth and watched, suddenly realizing how pitiful her hopes had been. She watched them circle the fire, watched how perfectly they molded to each other, the way she clung so close to him. When the music waned and the song finished, she hoped they would separate, that he would return for her. She waited; she did not move from her spot.

  He did not once glance her way.

  Chapter 2

  Paiva had seen enough. Her heart felt low and aching in her chest. She turned into the laneway and headed home, not minding the music and laughter that echoed behind her. She drew the mask from her face and let it fall to the ground where it shattered, echoing the effect of the wasted pains she had taken to prepare for the night. She had had enough wine to encourage her temper and she let it sear through her veins heatedly. Angrily she headed home, marching as fast as she could.

  She had made a good distance down the lane when a laughing voice called out her name behind her. She froze, then spun around. Ramsi’s slim figure trotted up after her. His fox mask grinned at her in the lamp light.

  “Are you off so early?” he called.

  “I am tired. I had too much sweet wine,” she said. “Good night, Ramsi. Miriel would not like for you to keep her waiting.”

  “Miriel can wait,” he said catching up to her. “I have to admit, that was a rather cruel trick of mine. But it is Mummers-eve. It is a night for tricks.”

  “What trick?”

  “May I walk you home? I do think your father will be upset for you walking alone in the dark on Mummers-eve,” he said. She stared at him, at his eyes black behind his mask. She could not help the small smile that crept over her face. She turned back up the lane and he followed, reaching out a hand to grasp hers. She felt a thrill race through her, even though his hands were as freezing cold as the night air away from the bonfire.

  “What trick?” she asked again.

  “I wanted to see if I could make you jealous,” he said. “I think I did.” She felt her cheeks burn.

  “I wasn’t jealous,” she spluttered.

  “I think you are.”

  She blushed further and looked at her feet to keep from stumbling. They walked on until the little lights in her house grew brighter at the edge of the pasture. There were candles lit in the windows to invite in costumed visitors. Her house was well out of everyone’s way; they hardly ever received any visits, Mummers-eve or not. There was no reason to visit the Ibbie farm at the edge of town.

  His silver spurs clicked against stones in the road. Her breath came out in white clouds before her in the chilled spring air. The moon hung low and swollen in the sky, casting the land in a ghostly glow. She could hear the music and roar of laughter fading behind her.

  She saw Ramsi lift his hand to his face and remove his mask, tucking it inside his tunic. His skin was pale in the moonlight, his handsome face otherworldly. He stopped all of a sudden, and she stopped alongside him while he canted his head back to look at the sky.

  “What an eerie night,” he said. She hoped there was only one reason he had taken his mask off. She imagined in that moment his head bending to hers and his lips softly moving against her own. He stared at the sky a moment longer, his cold hand making hers just as cold, then he faced forward and continued on walking.

  “How mad would your father be if perhaps we went to walk a little bit longer, say up past the pasture, perhaps to the altar?” he asked.

  “He would be mad,” she said, “if he found out. But he won’t.” She saw his lips curve in a smile.

  “Would be great fun to spook some spirits stealing bread, no?” he said, smiling back at her. His eyes were very dark, the hazel brown obscured in shadow.

  “They don’t eat bread,” she said. “It’s the gesture, the power of our thoughts and our prayers they eat.”

  “Is that what your father says?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  They skirted a stone fence and went out through the pasture, keeping well away from her father’s dog that was always quick to raise an alarm. He pulled her along after him, his long fingers clasped against her own while her heart thrummed in sweet contentment. She was afraid, but she put her trust in Ramsi, who she knew had gone deep into the forest before. She would have followed him anywhere in that moment. He was a ranger, so he was used to the creatures that lurked in the shadows and he had more than once defended himself. At least he had in the stories he told.

  They slid into the woods as quiet as wraiths. The moonbeams filtered through the trees as she followed him up to the stone altar. She heard footfalls break through the forest: an animal startled off by their presence. She jumped and he chuckled, wrapping his hand tighter over hers.

  “A wolf perhaps,” he murmured.

  “I hope you have a dagger.”

  “I have no dagger.”

  “You should not go into the woods unarmed. It is foolish.”

  “You do not trust me?” he asked.

  “It is not you I do not trust, it is the woods.”

  Again he chuckled. His freezing hand remained on hers. She looked at him in the dim light, wondering if her eyes were deceiving her. His skin seemed so pale, his hair too gray. She drew a little away from him, suddenly overcome by a sense of unease.

  “Why are we here?” she asked. He looked at her for a long moment, his face expressionless. Even in that moment her vision seemed to again play tricks on her. His eyes seemed hollowed, overcome with sinister shadows.

  “Ramsi?” she asked again. “Why are we here?”

  “Because I tricked you.” His strange face drooped. She took a step back, pulling her hand away as a gasp caught in her throat. His features seemed to distort, like a ripple in molten glass. The color of his hair and his clothes drained and became as bleached and as cold as the moonlight. He turned away as this change occurred, and she gazed in numb horror.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice quavering with fear and with cold. He ignored her; he seemed intent on peering into the trees and cocking his deformed head as if listening for a faraway noise.

  “There is someone else here,” he said curiously. He swiveled his head as he listened, and in the slanted moonbeam she saw a face that could not have possibly been human. The mouth was stretched across a glitter of fangs, the eyes were deep pits of black. Its hair had changed into a mane of white bristles and feathers. It should have been a man, for it wore pale robes that floated to the ground like a shroud, but it wasn’t. It stepped forward, its footstep landing with a dull click. She realized with horror there were no longer silver spurs, but jagged talons on birdlike feet. In her memory a face stood out to her that had floated across the pages of her father’s books. She sucked in her breath as the horrible realization dawned on her, and from the bottom of her lungs, she let loose a scream that shattered the night.

  She stumbled back, shock turning her blood to ice that froze her limbs. She hit the ground hard and then scramble
d for her feet as the instinct to run overtook any other thought. She heard from behind her a rustle of feather and dead leaves. She felt claws pierce through her cloak dangerously close to her skin and the creature dragged her back. She screamed again, this time in lament for her utter foolishness. The breath was crushed from her, changing her scream into a strangled sob. Her hands sought purchase in the earth and in roots, desperately fighting to pull herself away. She felt coarse feathers brush her cheeks and then she heard a strange sound.

  A swift hiss, followed by a wet thud. The creature tumbled to its side, releasing her from its grip. It writhed on the ground in a tangle of feathers and its shroud-like robe. She struggled to regain her feet, too weakened from the blow to stand. She managed to haul herself to a sheltering tree where she hid from her assailant and strained for breath. The creature tore at its throat; its features twisted in a strange silent pain, an arrow protruding from its neck. Her first thought was that the rangers had heard her scream, but then it would have been impossible for them to arrive so fast. She darted a look through the shadowed woods, searching for some sign of help. Another arrow hissed from the depths of the trees and thudded into the white monster’s back. This time the beast let go a low wail, a mixture of pain and of anger. Whatever it was she saw before her, she had the satisfaction of knowing it felt pain.

  It staggered to its feet and heaved itself wretchedly towards the tree she hid behind. Before she could react, a black shape hurtled out of the trees. There was a flash of a silver blade before it collided into the creature, and the two figures rolled to the ground in a blend of black and white. The immediate hope that surfaced in Paiva’s heart was that the black shape was one of the good spirits her father prayed to, and that somehow before her there was a convening of both good and evil here on the forest floor. However she realized it wasn’t so; the figure was no more than a man, quickly succumbing to his opponent’s strength.