Ghostspeaker Chronicles Books 1-3 Omnibus: Ghostspeaker Chronicles

Whispering Willows

Loesie’s story

THE RIVER behind Granma’s house runs deep. The water’s like a vat of dirty milk, all murky, with eddies and floating sticks that twirl and twirl downstream.

From the top of the dike, with only green fields and willows around me, I can see the other side—just. Maybe I could make out a person if they stood on the bank, but I’s not sure ’cause no one ever does. The other side is Burovia and them’s bad as they come, at least so says Granpa in between stuffing his pipe and stripping willow twigs.

No one with half a brain would try to cross the river. No one ever could.

Except the man and his enormous horse.

I were cutting willow switches, and then I seen them in the middle of the water. Two heads, a black horse’s and a man’s. It seemed the horse was walking-like, on the bottom, but I don’t know’s the river has a bottom. But whatever it were doing, the horse were coming straight for me.

I hid in the tree, which were pretty silly-like, ’cause a willow’s no leaves in early spring.

The man didn’t see me, or he pretended he didn’t see me as much as I pretended to be a bird. Or something.

He had hair red as a fox, all curly, and the bit below his shoulders were wet and dripped water onto his jerkin.

The horse—it were huge, with a long mane and masses of fluff around hooves big as Ma’s milking bucket. It were noisy-like, snorting and blowing and grumbling.

The stranger sat straight on the horse’s back, no saddle, and grabbed a breath of wind in his hand. He whispered into it, and let it go. He were using magic. His eyes met mine and my cheeks glowed like they was on fire.

He kicked the horse’s sides and rode off. The orange spot that were his hair got smaller and smaller amongst the grass and the buttercups.

Annette looked at me, eyes wide like a rabbit’s just before it got clubbed.

I don’t believe you.

I shrugged. Annette’s pale hands never stopped weaving willow twigs in-out-in-out around the leads. Apple baskets we was making, not that I’d a clue what city people want with those, seeing there’s no apple trees in the city, but Granma said make apple baskets, so we made apple baskets. For taking to market, you know.

I seen it.

No one can swim the river.

He did.

Then where is he now, that man of yours?

Heat flamed in my cheeks. He lives in the reeds and he keens for me. He be hiding.

Annette snorted. There was never a man. You and your stories, Loesie. She tamped down the woven twigs with a piece of wood.

I said nothing, taking one lead twig after another and weaving them around the edge of the basket so it made a thick braid. The willow twigs sang out to me, showing me the fox-haired stranger and his giant horse. His eyes met mine and inside me something stirred I couldn’t begin to describe. I never met anyone else who knew about magic.

You know my ma says I got to take my vows next time we’re at church? She says I’m too old for stories.

I pretended to be busy with my basket. I hadn’t taken my vows, and I weren’t going to, much as Granpa suddenly seemed keen. But the triune of the Spirit, the Ghost and the Holy God could go fishing as far as I’s concerned, because the church said there weren’t any magic. It was just that city people didn’t believe what they couldn’t see. That’s why they made statues of the triune, hideous three-headed things, painted in colours and glittery-like. As if something with three heads could exist.

They’s not stories I tell, Annette. I seen the man. He were crossing the river, and then his magic told me to come to him, you know. His hair’s soft like a newborn lamb’s.

You didn’t really touch a man, did you, Loesie? Annette’s eyes were wide.

I did. It’s just as true’s I sit here talking to you. It were such fun, telling Annette stories.

Hush. Just keep quiet about those things, or my ma won’t let me come anymore. I don’t want that, Loesie. You’re my only friend.

No, I said. I’s not telling anyone. Of course I wouldn’t. Granma would send me to bed without dinner.

Good, she said, and then her eyes glinted. Can I see him?

Annette and me went down to the river, but of course the man weren’t there. I told her of the great black waterhorse and with each word I said, the horse grew until it was so tall there were no way the man could get on its back. Never mind, Annette listened.

Do horses have magic?

Horses don’t. Waterhorses do. They have hooves that turn into duck’s feet when they get into the water.

Wow, a magic horse. Annette stared at the far bank of the river. The breeze stirred her straw-blond hair, and the soft light made her eyes baby-blue. She were pretty, Annette, in all the ways I were not.

This man, do you think he was a foreigner?

Of course he were. He came right from the Burovian king’s castle.

On winter nights, the farm hand Ko would tell stories of the king, who could change into a bear and would rip the throats of the men who didn’t please him, and that were just his own men—imagine what he would do to us weak Saarlanders and our gibbering priests.

Annette shivered. What do you think he was doing here?

Spying on us, of course.

Annette clamped her hands around herself. Sometimes I felt sorry for her, only sometimes, though. Most of the time I just told her stories, and laughed at how she believed I knew everything. Never mind it would only last until she made a good match, and no man wanted me.

At dinner time, I had to hear all about it.

After Granma told me to leave my clogs by the door, and wash your hands because they’re dirty, girl, I found Granpa sitting at the table glaring at me. That’s when I knew something were up. Granpa don’t look at me like that for nothing.

I sat down meekly and he said the daily prayer. Something about the Spirit giving us life and the Ghost taking it away and the Holy God keeping our souls in his heart. He murmured words like I’s never heard him say on the farm, and I guess he don’t know what they mean either. City words-like.

Granma had her hands folded on the table. Ma held hers on her lap because they was all brown, the kind of dirt you can’t wash off, from the cows. Ko had taken off his cap. His hair stood up straight, like straw in the barn, only dirtier.

We was never praying kind of people before Annette and her ma come back from the city with all their ideas about what’s right and proper. I didn’t think Granma and Granpa believed in the triune, but they’s good at pretending while the neighbours was watching. Ko, you see, works for them, too.

While Ma ladled soup onto our plates, Granpa began. Pier were here this afternoon. His words was stiff with meaning.

You see, Pier and Granpa . . . let’s say they didn’t get along. At times when Granpa thought I weren’t listening, I’d heard him talk about that stiff-face and his mad sister from town. The mad sister would be Annette’s ma. She’d lost her husband, see, when he’d gone off in some war to fight, at least that’s what Annette says, but I don’t believe her. I think he’s died of some silly disease-like and she’s ashamed to say. The people of Saarland don’t fight, they trade. The king’s got no army to speak of, even me knows that.

Anyway, Granpa were saying that Pier had stepped inside Granpa’s house, and that were something. It said: this is important, Loesie. You better listen.

Pier said you’d been telling Annette stories again.

I . . . The stupid cow! Tell me I weren’t to say anything, but blab to her own family instead?

No, I don’t want any more of this kind of trouble. Waterhorses and magic! What were you thinking, Loesie? Didn’t you learn anything from the time her ma called you a witch?

Granpa, the man and the horse were real. I seen them. Besides, if seeing things in willow wood made a person a witch, I were a witch.

I know. But his eyes said he didn’t believe me, or at least he didn’t want to, and at the moment that were pretty much the same thing. I want no more trouble with Pier, Loesie. I’ve half a mind to send you to church school to make a lady out of you.

The wind whistled around the corners of the church and whispered magic into its willow wood. Giant black horses and fox-haired strangers. The meeting of gazes across a river bank. The priest stood at the church doors, his mouth open in a chant, but the magic went straight through him.

I woke up sweating under too many blankets, while my breathing filled the dark. The wind howled around the corner of the house, wolf-like. With such strength, it must have a lot of stories to tell. Of black horses, knights with shields and swords, dark castles and deep forests. Listen as I might, I could not hear them, but I knew the fox-haired stranger could. And I wondered what he were listening to.

As punishment, Granpa sent me to prune willows upriver.

That were a long way from the farm, and the path were all muddy-like from last night’s rain. Half the morning were gone by the time I got there, ducking lapwings who thought I were after their eggs. Stupid birds.

Here, the water churned softly around a bend. There were no sound except sometimes a fish leapt out of the water and landed back in. Splash. It were frightening until you got used to it. A moist wind whipped hair into my face, a mere ghost of last night’s gale, all its stories swept out to sea.

I took my ladder, propped it against a tree, stuck my saw in my belt and climbed. Last time Granpa cut these branches were five years ago, and they had grown lush and thick. Just right for apple baskets. Whatever city folk needed apple baskets for.

When I put my hand on the first twig, I heard a harsh shout. I no longer saw the willow’s misshapen trunk, but a line of men coming down the opposite bank. One of them unslung an enormous bow from his shoulder, nocked an arrow and loosed it. The arrow flew across the river, trailing a thin rope. It thunked into the wood of a nearby tree.

The man waded into the river, and swam, a small head in the churning water. He clambered onto the bank hanging onto the rope. His arms was freckled, his hair curly and dark. He yanked the arrow out of the tree, and pulled at the rope. He pulled and pulled until something else came out of the water—the end of a thick rope, which he dragged to the tree and tied it around the trunk.

Then the other men splashed into the river, their horses blowing from the nostrils, keeping their necks straight so their heads stuck out of the water. The last horse were without rider. The rope stopped them drifting with the current.

There was at least twenty of them, clambering onto the river bank. They wore breast-plates, and swords, massive bows across muscled shoulders. The freckled man jumped into the saddle of the riderless horse in a single leap.

With them came three animals like I’s never seen before. Big, long-haired and shaggy, with a pointy nose that wriggled and little piggy eyes. They crawled up the bank awkward-like, on their flat feet. But as soon as they come on top of the dike, they was off with great speed. A young calf with its mother were no more than a game for them, bellowing and gurgling in bloody death.

Someone yelled. A man stood on the path with a wheelbarrow full of fat cheeses.

Annette’s granpa? What were he doing here? He’d gone to market this morning.

The freckled stranger drew his bow and said hissing words that floated from his mouth, mist-like, and wrapped themselves around the arrow. Willow wood, it were. It sang through the air and hit the old farmer in the chest. His body twisted, turned brown and rough, sprouted branches, and next thing there were a willow in the field.

The freckled man spread his hands, snagging tendrils of wind between his fingers. There were magic in the air. Pictures. Men on horses wielding swords. A holy man shouting. The freckled stranger hissed sibilant words and the army surged forward. They wasn’t just men, they was demons, with snarling faces.

He laughed and looked at me. For a fleeting moment, I saw the face of a different man, one with fox-red hair.

I gasped and almost fell down the ladder.

Looked around.

Green fields, reeds and meadows. A swan grazed by the river bank. The river stretched out on both sides like a silver ribbon, with all its murky eddies. Completely normal-like, with no archers and shaggy brown animals. No magic arrows.

But reeds on the bank was pushed aside. There was hoof marks in the sand. On the trunk of a tree clung a clump of fur with hair as long as my hand, thick and dark brown. And a willow stood in the middle of the paddock, a wheelbarrow next to it, empty.

They’s took the cheese.

When I came home, Ko were just letting the cows out of the milking paddock. One after the other, they ambled into the sunset, their stupid noses in the grass.

He grinned at me, the sunlight catching his sail-ears. Seen any more waterhorses, Loesie?

I stomped into the barn and dumped my bundles of twigs. It were already half-dark, and I couldn’t see much in that musty cobwebby place, other than Annette’s unfinished basket. She hadn’t come today. Silly me and my stories. Silly Annette for believing everything I said.

There were a snort.

A horse stood in the corner, tied to a ring in the wall.

The black horse.

The fox-haired man—he were here! I ran outside.

Shadows moved against the light in the kitchen. Annette were in Granma’s vegetable garden, peeking into the window.

My stranger were at Granpa’s table, eating a bowl of soup. He sat with his back straight, looking around like he’s owned the place. Ma stood at the stove, stirring the pan. She were giving him dirty glances-like as she don’t trust him. Granma were sitting in the corner in her rocking chair, knitting. Granpa sat at the other end of the table, his hands folded on the table, as if he were praying.

Isn’t he handsome? Annette said in a voice like I’s never heard from her, bewitched-like.

Annette, go home, these strangers is no good.

She whirled at me, her cheeks red. What do you know about that? Telling stories again? You just want him for yourself, don’t you?

No. These men’s dangerous. They’s bringing an army of demons—

"Shoosh, Loesie, before you talk any more nonsense. Have you seen his water horse? Your granpa has it swimming in the cow’s trough."

I said nothing. Glared into the room without seeing anything. Then I turned to the door. Like I care if you don’t believe me! I’s going to warn Granpa.

As I went in, Annette looked at me and there were something in those blue eyes that I never seen before. I knew that things’d never be the same.

The stranger’s voice were deep and rumbled like the growl of an angry wolf, or how I thought it’d sound, not like I’s ever seen a wolf, but that’s what the willows tell me about wolves.

He were now standing, having tipped the contents of a leather pouch on the table. Gold pieces! He counted out three and gave them to Granpa, who picked them up and tried to bend them. Like they would. Always seemed too eager to take visitors’ money, Granpa were.

We’ll tell you when we seen something strange, Granpa were saying. Loesie, this traveller were just telling us how he’s looking for bandits.

I seen something strange, I said. See? He were not a bad man. Nothing to do with the demons. There was men crossing the river. They’s had brown demons, all shaggy-like, and one of the men changed Annette’s granpa into a tree.

Oh, Loesie, stop telling stories, Granma said, looking up from her knitting. Their granpa has gone to market. He won’t be back until tomorrow.

But I seen it.

The man nodded, a smile on his face. His eyes met mine. They was golden brown, like the freckles on his nose and his cheeks. Freckles must be common in the lands across the river.

He called up a breeze. It tickled my skin as it flowed past me, and I could see that even though I weren’t seeing things on the air, he were. Of what I’d seen when the willow spoke to me. Magic were speaking to magic.

He traced his finger across the ticklish skin under my chin. Fiery girl you have here, Anton.

His speech were like city folk’s, in which Granpa’s name floated like a turd in a scented bath, but I’s just making that up, ’cause I seen a turd plenty times, but I never seen a scented bath.

My skin crawled with his touch, goosebump-like. I wanted to hit him, I wanted to throw myself in his arms. I believed him; I didn’t believe him. His eyes spoke of danger.

Without a word, the stranger gathered his bag and strode to the door, leaving behind a deafening silence.

Here be dinner, Loesie, Ma said.

I sat down and took my spoon, blowing steam off the soup. The willow wood table sang the stranger’s touch. Trustmetrustmetrustme.

Handsome fellow, Granpa said, glancing at me, rubbing his gold pieces.

Ko went out to feed the cows, Granpa had to bring in hay, and when I finished eating, I said I needed to lay out my twigs. I’d already done that of course, but my mind were clouded with men on giant horses and their brown shaggy demons. Glistening arrows and huge swords, whispering magic to the air.

The sun hung low on the horizon, an orange ball in a grey sky. Shadows of the cows crept over the field, ghost-like, many times longer than the animals was tall.

The windows of Pier’s farm glowed golden in the setting sun. The vegetable garden were empty; Annette must have gone home for dinner.

There was voices in the shed. For a moment I thought it was Ko and Granpa, but then I remembered they was in the field. It were a woman’s voice I were hearing.

Annette.

They stood in the corner of the shed, next to the horse.

He leaned lazily against the wall, having drawn her so close she might as well be lying on top of him. He stroked hair out of her face with his right hand. His left hand rested on her back. There were magic in the way he looked at her, the way he spoke soft words, his lips almost touching her ear.

I ran out of the barn.

The night were full of thunder and magic rumbled in the storm. I swung Granpa’s axe, chopping gauges in soft willow wood. With every chop, I felt the pain. Magic being chopped out of me. Pain were good. I wanted pain; I wanted blood on my hands, on the chest of Annette’s pale dress. Her screams pierced the night. She were the tree, or the tree were her. Supple branches reached to strangle me.

I woke up when someone banged on the front door. Hard. Thunder boomed. Noise filled the night.

Granma stumbled from the bedroom, lit a candle and went to open the door. A gust of air blasted in, almost as furious as Pier’s voice. Where is Annette?

The candle threatened to flutter out.

Pier, it be the middle of the night. Why would Annette—

Last I saw her she were walking to your barn. To finish her baskets, she said. It’s that crazy girl of yours, isn’t it?

Granma backed away. Look, Pier, I don’t know—