– Frances Cornford, “The Watch,” Collected Poems
Resa didn’t know how long she had been sitting there, just .sitting in the dimly lit, dark cave where the strolling players slept, holding Mo’s hand. One of the women players brought her something to eat, and now and then one of the children crept in, leaned against the cave wall, and listened to what she was telling Mo in a quiet voice – about Meggie and Elinor, Darius, the library and its books, the workshop where he cured books of sickness and wounds as bad as his own .. How strange the strolling players must find her stories of another world that they had never seen. And how very strange they must think her, to talk to someone who lay so still, his eyes closed as if he would never open them again.
Just as the fifth White Woman appeared on the steps, the old woman had returned to Capricorn’s fortress with three men. It had not been so very far for her to go. Resa had seen guards standing among the trees as they entered the camp. The people these men were guarding were the cripples and the old folk, women with small children, and obviously there were also some in the camp who were simply resting from the stress and strain of life on the open road.
When Resa asked where food and clothing for all these people came from, one of the strolling players who had come to fetch Mo replied, “From the Prince.” And when she asked what prince he meant, he had put a black stone into her hand by way of answer.
She was known as Nettle, the old woman who had so suddenly appeared at the gate of Capricorn’s fortress. Everyone treated her with respect, but a little fear was mingled with it, too.
Resa had to help her when she cauterized Mo’s wound. She still felt sick when she thought of it.
Then she had helped the old woman to bind up the wound again and memorized all her directions. “If he’s still breathing in three days’ time he may live,” she had said before leaving them alone again, in the cave that offered protection from wild beasts, the sun, and the rain, but not from fear or from black, despairing thoughts.
Three days. It grew dark and then light again outside, light and then dark again, and every time Nettle came back and bent over Mo, Resa sought her face desperately for some sign of hope. But the old woman’s features remained expressionless. The days went by, and Mo was still breathing, but he still wouldn’t open his eyes.
The cave smelled of mushrooms, the brownies’ favorite food. Very likely a whole pack of them had once lived here. Now the mushroom aroma mingled with the scent of dead leaves. The strolling players had strewn the cold floor of the cave with them: dead leaves and fragrant herbs
– thyme, meadowsweet, woodruff. Resa rubbed the dry leaves between her fingers as she sat there cooling Mo’s forehead, which was not cold anymore but hot, terribly hot. . The scent of thyme reminded her of a fairy tale he had read to her long, long ago, before he found out that his voice could bring someone like Capricorn out of the words on the page. Wild thyme should not be brought indoors, the story had said, bad luck comes with it. Resa threw away the hard stems and brushed the scent off her fingers onto her dress.
One of the women brought her something to eat again, and sat beside her for a while in silence, as if hoping that her presence would bring a little comfort. Soon after that three of the men came in, too, but they stayed standing at the entrance of the cave, looking at her and Mo from a distance. They whispered to one another as they glanced at the pair of them.
“Are we welcome here?” Resa asked Nettle on one of her silent visits. “I think they’re talking about us.”
“Let them!” was all the old woman said. “I told them you were attacked by footpads, but of course that doesn’t satisfy them. A beautiful woman, a man with a strange wound, where do they come from? What happened? They’re curious. And if you’re wise, you won’t let too many of them see that scar on his arm.”
“Why not?” Resa looked at her, baffled.
The old woman scrutinized her as if she wanted to see into her heart. “Well, if you really don’t know, then that’s just as well,” she said at last. “And let them talk. What else are they to do?
Some come here to wait for death, others for life to begin at last, others again live only on the stories they are told. Tightrope-walkers, fire-eaters, peasants, princes – they’re all the same, flesh and blood and a heart that knows it will stop beating one day.”
Fire-eaters. Resa’s heart leaped when Nettle mentioned them. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
“Please!” she said, when the old woman reached the entrance of the cave again. “You must know many strolling players. Is there one who calls himself Dustfinger?”
Nettle turned as slowly as if she were still deciding whether to answer this. “Dustfinger?” she finally replied, in unforthcoming tones. “You’ll scarcely find one of the strolling players who doesn’t know of him, but no one’s seen him for years. Although there are rumors that he’s back…”
Oh yes, he’s back, thought Resa, and he will help me just as I helped him in the other world.
“I must send him a message!” She heard the desperation in her own voice. “Please!”
Nettle looked at her without any expression on her brown face. “CloudDancer is here,” she said at last. “His leg is aching again, but as soon as it’s better he’ll be on his way. See if he’ll ask around for you and deliver your message.”
Then she had gone.
CloudDancer.
Darkness was falling again outside, and with the fading light men, women, and children came into the cave and lay down on the dead leaves to sleep – away from her, as if Mo’s stillness might be catching. One of the women brought her a torch. It cast quivering shadows on the rocky walls, shadows that made faces and passed black fingers over Mo’s pallid face. The fire did not keep the White Women away, although it was said that they both desired and feared it. They appeared in the cave again and again, like pale reflections with faces made of mist. They came closer and disappeared again, presumably driven away by the sharp and bitter smell of the leaves that Nettle had scattered around the place where Mo was lying. “It will keep them off,” the old woman had said, “but you must watch carefully all the same.”
One of the children was crying in his sleep. His mother stroked his hair to comfort him, and Resa couldn’t help thinking of Meggie. Was she alone, or was the boy still with her? Was she happy, sad, sick, in good health .. ? How often she had asked herself these questions, as if she hoped for an answer sometime, from somewhere. .
A woman brought her fresh water. She smiled gratefully and asked the woman about CloudDancer. “He prefers to sleep in the open,” she said, pointing. It was some time since Resa had seen any more White Women, but all the same she woke one of the women who had offered to relieve her during the night. Then she climbed over the sleeping figures and went out.
The moon was shining through the dense canopy of leaves, brighter than any torch. A few men were sitting around a fire. Unsure of herself, Resa went toward them, in the dress that wasn’t right for this place at all. It ended too far above her ankles even for one of the strolling players, and it was torn, too.
The men stared at her, both suspicious and curious. “Is one of you CloudDancer?”