TWENTY-NINE

Feathers in a Fool's Cap

I missed a step in the dark. It was like that, that unexpected lurch.

'Blood is memory.' I swear someone whispered that by my ear.

'Blood is who we are/ a young woman agreed with him. 'Blood recalls who we were. Blood is how we will be remembered. Work it well into the womb wood.'

Someone laughed, an old woman with few teeth. 'Say that six times swiftly!' she cackled. And she did. 'Work it well into the womb wood. Work it well into the womb wood. Work it well into the womb wood. Work it well into the womb wood. Work it well into the womb wood. Work it well into the womb wood.'

The others laughed, amused at her tripping tongue. 'Well, you try it!' she challenged us.

'Work it well into the womb wood,' I said obediently.

But it wasn't me.

There were five other people there inside me, looking out of my eyes, running my tongue over my teeth, scratching at my beard with my unkempt nails. Breathing my breath, and rejoicing in the taste of the forest on the night air. Shaking out my hair, alive again.

Five poets, five jesters. Five tellers of tales. Five jumbling, tumbling minstrels, leaping and whirling in gratitude for their release, shaking out my fingers, limbering my voice, and already squabbling and vying for my attention.

'What is your need? A birthday anthem? I've a host of them at my beck and call, and it's no trouble, no trouble at all to adapt one to your recipient's name!'

'Hackery! Shameless hackery, this chopping and splicing of old relics, this dressing of bones anew! Let me have your voice and I'll sing you a song to rouse your warriors and make your maidens tremble with new-born lust!' This was a man, and he filled my lungs to bursting to roar out his words. Each set of words, each voice came from my own throat. I was a puppet for them, a pipe to be played.

'Lust is but a wet moment, a surge and a splat!' she said disdainfully. She was a young woman, and she remembered freckles across the bridge of her nose. Strange to hear her words pipe from my throat. 'You want a love song, don't you? Something timeless, something older than the fallen mountains, and newer than a seed unfurling in rich soil. Such is love.'

'Good luck!' Someone exclaimed in dismay. He tinged his words with a fop's disdain. 'Listen. Fa,la,la,la,la,la - oh, hopeless! This one has the pipes of a sailor, and a body of wood. The finest song ever sung will be a crow's croaking when it comes from this throat, and I'll wager he never turned a handspring in his life. Who is this, and how came he by our treasure?I

'Minstrels,' I said dully. 'Minstrels, tumblers and bards. Oh, Fool, this would be your treasure- A circle of jesters. There is no help for us here.' I put my head down into my hands. I felt the rough wood of the crown beneath my fingers. I pushed at it, but it clung stubbornly in place. It had tightened to my brow.

'We've only just arrived,' the toothless crone complained. 'We've no intention of leaving already. We are a great gift, a magnificent gift, only awarded to the one most pleasing to the King. We are a chorus of voices, from all ages, we are a rainbow of history. Why would you refuse us? What sort of a performer are you?'

'I'm not a performer at all.' I sighed heavily. For a moment, I regained full awareness of my body. I stood by the funeral pyre. I didn't recall getting up from it. Night was dark around us and chirring insects were tuning their voices. In the cooling air, I smelled the rich leaf mould of the forest. The Fool's degenerating body added its own note of sweet rot. All his life, he had been the Scentless One to Nighteyes. Now, in death, I smelled him. It did not sicken me. There was still wolf enough in me that how he smelled was simply how he smelled. It was the change that gave me a pang, for it was irrefutable evidence that his body was going back to the earth and the natural web of rot and rebirth all around me. I tried to pause for long enough to take some comfort in that, but the five within me were too impatient for stillness. They turned me in a slow circle, lifting my arms, testing the spring of my feet, rilling my lungs with air. I sensed how those within me lapped eagerly at the night, the taste, the smell, the sound, and the feel of the forest air on my face. They were avid for life.

'What help do you need?' the freckled girl asked me, and in her voice I heard sympathy and a readiness to listen. And under it, scarcely cloaked, lurked the hunger that all minstrels have for the tale of another's woe. She wanted that part of life back as well. I did not wish to share mine.

'No. Go away. You can't help me.' And then, against my will, I told them anyway. 'My friend is dead. I want to bring him back to life. Can a minstrel help with that?'

For one respectful instant, they were silent as I gazed down on the Fool's corpse. Then, the freckle-nosed girl said tremulously, 'He's very dead, isn't he?'

'Yes, he is,' the bull-throated one declared, but added, 'I can make you such a song as will have him remembered a thousand years hence. It is the only way ordinary mortals can transcend the flesh. Give me your memories of him, and I'll get started.'

The crone spoke sense to me. 'Did we know how to undo death, would we be what we are, feathers in a fool's cap? We are lucky to have this much of life left to us. A pity that your friend did not have the favour of a dragon, or perhaps he, too, could share this boon.'

'What are you?' I demanded.

'We are sweet preserves of song, stored away so that in the winter of our deaths you can taste again the tang of our summers.' It was the young man, so conscious of his imagery that he ruined it for me.

'Someone else!' I begged when the young man fell silent.

'We were favoured of dragons,' a calm voice said. She was one who had not spoken before. Her voice was a deep calm pond, huskier than the voice of most women. I heard it in my mind even as my own throat rusted her words. 'I lived by the river of black sand, in a little town called Junket. I went one day to fetch water from the river, and there I met my dragon. She was a young thing, just at the end of her first summer, and I was in the spring of my years. Oh, she was green, a thousand greens, with eyes like deep pots of melted gold. She stood in the river and the waters rushed by her. Then she looked at me, and my heart fell into her whirlpool eyes, never to surface again. I had to sing to her; speaking would not have been enough. So she charmed me and I sang to her, and charmed her in return. I was her minstrel and her bard for all the days of my life. And when my time to end was approaching, she came to me, with the gift that only a dragon may give. It was a sliver of wood from a dragon's womb ... do you know whereof I speak? The cradles they spin for the serpents to sleep in unI'll they emerge as dragons? Sometimes, there is one who does not survive that stage, who dies in the sleep between serpent and dragon. Slow is the womb wood to erode, and the dragons forbid that humans touch any of it, save by their leave. But. to me, fair Smokewing brought a sliver of it. She bid me wet it well with my own blood, and work the blood into it with my fingers, all the while thinking of a feather.