Trudging up to the loft she shared with her brother, Mourra heard Schmendrick’s reply, “Perhaps not this one.” She looked over her shoulder to observe Sairey’s wordless surprise, and to hear the magician continue, “It did not come from the earth, after all, but from her hair — from her head. The flowers in our heads…those survive.”
Her mother did not respond, not until Mourra had put on her nightdress and crawled under her blanket with the blue and green birds on it that Sairey had woven especially for her. She brought her flower with her, pressing the fragrant stem against her cheek. Then, distant but clear, Sairey’s quiet, even voice, “Who are you?”
Mourra fell asleep before she heard the magician’s answer, but the full moon rose into her open window, and she woke to see it burning itself free of the willow branches that she could almost have touched. Like a firefly in a spiderweb, she thought, remembering the story of the woman whose clothes were made for her by spiders. She sat up and leaned her elbows on the windowsill to see her mother and Schmendrick standing near the old tree. The earliest stars were waking in the deep sky, one by one, and the magician was telling a story.
“No, they used to stick straight up, just as though the tree were reaching for the sky. That is a fact — any willow will tell you that. Listen now. The rain god’s daughter fell in love with a mortal, a human, and they ran away together, for fear of his anger. He could never catch them, because they fled so fast, but they could never rest, either, for he would always find them, no matter where in the world they hid themselves. Because all the trees of the world were afraid of the rain god, and none would give them shelter. Only the willow.”
Sairey laughed softly. “Yes, of course. It would be the willow.”
“The willow felt sorry for them and said it would take them in, which obviously wasn’t much help, not with its branches as wide-apart as they were. So the willow tried and tried — slowly, painfully, so painfully, all night long —”
Like that time I got my finger bent back, playing ball with Findros…
“— but at last it managed to get all its branches turned down, all the way to the ground, touching the ground, and so they hid the rain god’s daughter and her husband, and the rain god never could find them. So then they were safe.”
“The rain god must have been very angry. Gods don’t take that sort of thing well. As I know.”
“Oh, naturally he was furious! So he commanded the willow to stay like that forever, with its branches drooping down, as a warning to all the other trees.” Mourra heard the magician chuckle himself. “And he still makes certain to send rain, constant rain, wherever the willow trees are. But he forgot that the willow likes rain — indeed, loves rain — so he is content in his vengeance, his daughter is happy with her husband, the willow’s deep roots are always damp and happy —”
“And my children have a place for their tea parties. Thank you.” They passed into the moon-traced shadow of the tree, and Mourra lost sight of them for a moment, but she heard her mother say, “I like that story. I will tell it to them.”
Schmendrick said something in response that Mourra could not catch entirely, ending with “…sad story they told me. About the dragon.”
“Dragon?” Sairey’s shadow stood still, turning to face the magician’s shadow. “What dragon?”
“The one who killed their father. I am very sorry.”
Another puzzled silence in the willow-shadow. “They told you — a dragon…?” There was a sound under the words that could have been laughter, and was not.
“It was either black, with horns and things all over it, or it was the color of a thunderstorm, and had silver eyes. Depending on whom you talk to.” The magician’s voice was as quiet as the small night breeze in the willow branches. “Was that not so?”
Sairey sighed. ”My husband’s name was Joris. He was killed plowing a field, when a sinkhole opened under his feet without warning and swallowed him up. One of the rocks in the hole broke his skull.” There was a laugh in her voice now, but it hurt Mourra to hear. “That was all there was to his death, and little more to his life as well. No wonder the children made up a brave ending for him.”
No. No, that isn’t how it happened. There was a dragon — there was! Mourra fought back the urge to shut the window and clap her hands over her ears, She leaned against the frame, head bowed, hugging herself, rocking back and forth.
Schmendrick’s voice remained expressionless. “Death is death — loss is loss. Grief is grief. What difference?”
“None, except to children — children nourished on the fairy tales their father so loved to tell them. Findros was too young, but Mourra…Mourra knows.”
I didn’t make it up! Mourra ground her knuckles painfully into her eyes, warning them against tears. The magician said, somewhere far away, “Have you ever faced her with the truth? I rarely recommend it, but sometimes…”
“Once. Not again.”
“Ah. Quite wise.” Her mother made a sound that Mourra could not translate. Grownup talk, grownup noises. They were clear of the willow shadow now, and Sairey had seated herself in the wooden chair that the children’s father had made for her shortly before his death. Mourra knew from her own experience that Joris had not been a particularly good carpenter: the chair was ruthlessly uncomfortable, however one shifted position; there was no natural headrest; and there were always previously-unnoticed splinters to be dealt with. She could never imagine how her mother could possibly find any ease on the rough planks, but from time to time she would stubbornly sit there herself, as long as she could bear it.
Sairey was saying, “I’m sorry, I have no other chair.”
“As well. I have far to go, and if I sat down it might be a long time before I rose again. Thank you for your kindness. I will not forget.”
Her mother’s answer came slowly. “The pathway back to the main road is elusive at night. You may lose your way.”
“I have no way, as you mean it, and my road is elusive by any light. As I told you, when I encountered your children, they were a little bit lost, yes, but I was much more so. Lost and very weary, and out of stories to tell myself, out of all the games I know to persuade myself that I am what I pretend to be. The children’s company…helped.”
She wants him to stay, I know she does. My mother wants him to stay.
“Well, you’re a storyteller, no doubt of that.” Sairey was leaning back in the old wooden chair, considering him with her arms folded across her breast. “And you may ask my children if you need reassurance about being a magician. Findros would have taken that silly turtle egg to bed with him if I’d permitted it, the same way you saw Mourra asking to have her flower. They recognize you, those two.”
“As a trickster, nothing more. What I did to amuse them — to distract them from their fear — any half-competent parlor entertainer could have done. In truth, I am amazed that I managed those common little flummeries as well as I did. It is not always so.”
In the moonlight Mourra could see her mother lightly touch Schmendrick’s arm, then draw her hand back quickly. “But they tell me you knew their names without being told — and mine as well. True?”
“Mmm. Yes, well. A very small charm, much less difficult than people imagine. A beginner’s practice spell, really — I get it right perhaps half the time. Perhaps a little less.”
“So? But Mourra’s flower?” When he did not reply she pressed further. “Mourra’s flower that you said would never fade. Surely, anyone who could manage such a thing…” She left the words hanging in the air.
“Ah,” the magician said. “Mourra. Yes.” He chuckled dryly. “Well, if that bloody flower does die, I won’t know about it, will I?”