GREER GILMAN
Jack   Daw's   Pack
Greer Gilman is the author of one novel to date: Moonwise, a highly unusual, controversial work of mythic fiction which won the Crawford Award for Best First Novel in 1992. It was also short-listed for both the James Tiptree, Jr. and Mythopoeic Awards, and Gilman herself was short-listed for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. As critic Michael Swanwick has noted, "In its influence, Moonwise was certainly the most important fantasy work of the past decade for the simple reason that it roused an entire generation of new and unknown fantasy writers to Ambition. For a year after it came out, the conventions and writers' workshops buzzed with a constant mutter of amazement. A total unknown, with her first book, had reinvented not only the substance but the language of the fantasy novel, all to the satisfaction not of the perceived marketplace but of her own inner demons."
"Jack Daw's Pack," like Moonwise, is a tale that comes from the twilight realm that lies in between fiction, folklore, and poetry. The author, who has recently completed her second novel, lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. "Jack Daw's Pack" first appeared in the Winter 2000 issue of Century magazine.
—T.W.
The Crow
He is met at a crossroads on a windy night, the moon in tatters and the mist unclothing stars, the way from Ask to Owlerdale: a man in black, whiteheaded, with a three-string fiddle in his pack. Or in a corner of an ale house, querulous among the cups, untallied; somehow never there for the reckoning, though you, or Hodge, or any traveller has drunk the night with him. A marish man: he speaks with a reedy lowland wauling, through his beak, as they say. He calls Cloud crowland. How you squall, he says, you moorland ravens; how you peck and pilfer. He speaks like a hoodie crow himself, all hoarse with rain, with bawling ballads in the street. Jack Daw, they call him. A witty angry man, a bitter melancholy man. He will barter; he will gull. In his pack are bacca pipes, new ones, white as bones, and snuff and coney-skins and cards. He plays for nothing, or for gold; packs, shuffles. In a game, triumphant, he plucks out the Crowd of

Jack   Daw's   Pack  —   307
Bone, or Brock with her leathern cap and anvil, hammering at a fiery heart, a fallen star. (It brock, but I mended it.) Death's doxy, he calls her, thief and tinker, for she walks the moon's road with her bag, between the hedges white with souls; she takes. Here's a lap, he says, in his shawm's voice, sharp with yelling out for ale. Here's a blaze needs no bellows. Here's a bush catches birds. He mocks at fortune. The traveller in the inn forgets what cards he held, face down, discarded in the rings of ale; he forgets what gold he lost. He'd none in his pockets, yet he played it away, laid it round and shining on the sanded board, a bright array. On each is stamped a sun.
And elsewhere on that very night, late travelling the road between Cold Law and Soulsgrave Hag, no road at all but white stones glimmering, the sold sheep heavy in his purse, another Tib or Tom or Bartlemy will meet Jack Daw. He will stand at the crossroads, bawling in his windy voice, a broadside in his hand. There'll be a woodcut at the head: a hanged man on the gallantry, crows rising from the corn. Or this: a pretty drummer boy, sword drawn against the wood, and flaunting in her plumy cap. Two lovers' graves, entwined. A shipwreck, and no grave at all. You must take what he gives. Yet he will barter for his wares, and leave the heavy purse still crammed with coppers, for his fee is light. He takes only silver, the clipped coin of the moon: an hour of the night, a dream of owls. Afterwards, the traveller remembers that the three-string fiddle had a carven head, the face his own. With a cold touch at his heart, he knows that Jack Daw's fiddle wakes the dead; he sees their bones, unclad and rising, clothing with the tune. They dance. He sees his girl, left sleeping as he thought; Joan's Jack, gone for a soldier; his youngest child. Himself. They call him to the dance. He sees the sinews of the music string them, the old tunes, "Cross the Water to Babylon," "The Crowd of Bone." Longways, for as many as will, as must, they dance: clad in music, in the flowers and the flesh.
What the Crowd of Bone Sang
She is silent, Ashes, and she dances, odd one out. In the guisers' play, she bears a bag of ashes of the old year's crown to sain the hearths of the living, the hallows of the earth. The children hide from her, behind the door and in the shadow of the kist; not laughing, as they fear the Sun. Click! Clack! He knocks the old man dead, that headed him before. And tumbled by the knot of swords, he rises, flaunting in their gaze. The girl who put on Ashes with her coat of skins, who stalks them, bites her cheek and grimaces so not to laugh; she feels her power. She looks sidelong at the Sun.
They say that Ashes' mother got her gazing in her glass. Undo, the raven said, and so she did, undid, and saw her likeness in the stony mirror, naked as a branch of thorn. The old witch took it for herself; she cracked the glass, she broke the tree. They bled. Devouring, she bore her daughter, as the old moon bears the new, itself again; yet left hand to its right. And they do say the old one, Annis, locks her daughter in the dark of moon, winterlong and waning, and that Ashes' birth, rebirth, is spring. They say the sun is Ashes' lightborn brat. She is the shadow of the candle, the old moon's daughter and her mirror; she is tarnished with our breath and death. She's winter's runaway.
They are old who tell this.

308  —  Greer   Gilman
But the girl who put on Ashes with her tattered coat walks silent, flown with night and firelight and masking. She is giddy with the wheel of stars. She sees the brands whirled upward, sees the flash of teeth, of eyes. The guisers shout and jostle. They are sharp as foxes in her nostrils: smoke and ale and eager sweat. She moves among them, nameless; she wears her silence like a cloak of night. Ah, but she can feel the power in her marrow, like a vein of stars. Her feet are nightfall. She could tuck a sleeping hare within her jacket, take a hawk's eggs from its breast. Her hand could beckon like the moon and bid a crone come dancing from the chimneynook to sweep about her and about; could call the sun to hawk at shadows, or a young man to her lap, and what he will.
And in the morning, she will lay by Ashes with her rags, and wash her face, and comb the witchknots from her hair; but Ashes in the tale goes on.
In spring, she rises from her mother Annis' dark; they call the snow-drops Ashes' Steps. The rainbow is her scarf. She dances, whirling in the April storm; she fills her hands with hailstones, green as souls. And there are some have met her, walking backward on the lyke road, that they call the white hare's trod, away from death; she leaps within the cold spring, falling, filling up the traveller's hands. She is drunken and she eats.
At May, the riddlecake, as round as the wheeling sun, is broken into shards, one marked with ashes; he that draws her share is Sun. But he was sown long since, and he's forgotten harrowing. He rises and he lies. Light work. He breaks the hallows knot of thorn; he eats the old year's bones for bread. Sun calls the stalk from the seeded earth, draws forth the green blade and the beard to swell his train. He gives the meadows green gowns. And flowers falling to his scythe lie tossed and tumbled, ah, they wither at his fiery kiss. They fall in swathes, in sweet confusion, to his company of rakes, his rade of scythesmen all in green. The hay's his dance. Vaunting, he calls the witchstone, Annis, to the dance, for mastery of the year, and wagers all his reckless gold. But he has spent his glory and must die. The barley is himself.
Ashes reaps him. By harvesting, she's sunburnt, big with light. She wears a wreath of poppyheads; her palms are gashed, they're red with garnering. They open like a cry. Her sickle fells the standing corn, the hare's last hallows, and he's gathered in her sheaf. She's three then, each and all the moon, his end: her sickle shearing and her millstone trundling round, her old black cauldron gaping for his bones.
The Harper's Lad
His hair was yellow as the broom, as ragged as the sun. A ranting lad, a spark for kindling of the year. His name was Ash. It was Unhallows, in the grey between May Eve and morning. On the hills, the fires died. He'd leapt the nine hills in a turning wheel, from dusk to dusk, and rode rantipole with witches. Ah, they'd raged, howking at the earth with long blue nails. When they shook their tangled hair, the soulstones clattered, red as blood, and eyestones, milky white and black; and birdskulls, braided through the orbits, in their nightlong hair. He was drunk with dancing. He'd another girl to meet; had lingered, waking with his blue-eyed witch. The owl flew out, the raven in, sang mocking in his head, like Ashes in

Jack   Daw's   Pack  —   309
the old play. As he slouched along the moor, he heard a hoarse voice, in windy snatches, singing. Some belantered rantsman, he thought.
"Oh, my name it is Jack Hall, chimney sweep, chimney sweep ..." A crow's voice, chanting, hoarded iron in a hinge.
There were some had sung all night, thought Ash; he'd gone to other games. It was lightward, neither sun nor moon, but the grey cock's hour. He was late. He hastened toward the beck.
"And I've candles lily white, oh, I stole them in the night, for to light me to the place where I must lie."
They met by the trey stone, back of Law. A fiddler from a dance, it seemed, in a broad hat and battered jacket, with his face like the back of a spade. His hair was white as barley. "Out," he cries. "D'ye call this a road?"
"Flap ower it, then, awd corbie. D'ye call that a voice?"
"Called thee."
A glance at the three-string fiddle. "Canst play us a dance on thy crowdy, catgut? Light our heels, then."
"What, is thy candle out?"
"I've a lantern to light it at."
"Of horn?"
But Ash was thinking of the blue-eyed witch, as rough as juniper, as fierce. She'd scratched him. Ash thought of the fire, how it whirled and crackled when they burned the bush; the sparks flew up like birds. The fire was embers: for a coal of juniper will burn a winter's night. Would burn a nine month at the heather's roots. Closing his eyes, he saw late-risen stars whirl round, the Flaycraw all one side afire, and rising, naked to his bones. The hanged lad in the sky. He played for the dancers in the starry hey. He played the sun to rise. But that was Hallows; they were winter stars, another turning of the wheel, and other witches. Vixens in a cage of straw. Hey up, he must be giddy drunk. Were all yon ale and randy turned his wits. But he'd a spark in him yet. And Ash thought of the dark-eyed lass who waited, like a sloethorn and a clear gold sky. A traveller. Whin. He'd best be going on. He tossed a coin to the fiddler. "Here's to thy bitch."
"And for thy pains."
They found the broadside in his jacket, after. Some said the woodcut was a high green gallows, and the harper's boy hanged dead. And others, it were nothing like: the white hare running and the hag behind. The black hare's bonny, but the white is death, they say: the moon's prey and her shadow.
Ash thrust the broadside in his pocket and went on down the road. His tousled head was bare, as yellow as the weeds called chimneysweepers, that are gold and come to dust.
Scythes and Cup
Poor Tom a' Cloud, and so he died?
His husk, an old wife says, and drinks. Scarce bearded when he's threshed and sown. Another, brown as autumn, broad-lapped, takes the cup; she kneads the cake. Wha's dead? He's for thy belly, when he's risen, girl. He's drunken and he sleeps; his dreams are hallows, all a maze of light, of leaves. When's time, he'll

310  —  Greer   Gilman
wake wood. And says the third, as thrawn as frost, the youngest of the three: At dusk, at Hallows Eve, he rises, starry wi' a ceint o' light: t' Sheaf, Awd Flaycraw, clapping shadows frae th' fields of night. Yon hanged lad i' th' sky.
And Ashes?
Ah, she mourns and she searches. And rounding wi' his child, she spins. D'ye see yon arain webs ont moor? Tom's shrouds, they call 'em. Bastards' clouts. And she may rive at Mally's thorn for shelter; owl's flown, there's none within. No hallows. So she walks barefoot and bloodfoot, and she lives on haws and rain. And moon's her coverlid, her ragged sheet.
Sheath and Knife
The girl lies waiting in the high laithe, knife in hand. Hail rattles on the slates. She cannot hear—what? Hunters. Closer still, she holds the knife, the same which cut the cord. Her breasts seep milk, unsuckled. Ah, they ache. Her blood wells, she is rust and burning; blood will draw them. Talons. Wings. Her mind is black and bright with fever. She would slip them, fight them, but her body clags her. It is sodden; it is burning. Sticks and carrion. The wind wauls, the rooftrees creak; below is muck and sleet and stone. She's drawn the ruined ladder up. Holed up. She stares at dark until the earth cants, until the knife's edge calls her back. Sharp across her palm: a heartline. White, then red. Her blood and milk spilled on the musty straw. That will call them, that will draw them from the dark, the tree, the bairn. But the earth starves for what she will not give it. Their voices tell her she is famine, she is hailseed, withering, the cold share in the dust.
She was Ashes. Ah, she'd flyted with them, wives and lasses, as they'd stripped her of her guising, scrubbed her, tugged the witchknots from her hair. Cross all and keep nowt, they'd told her, turning out the sooty pockets, folding up the tattered coat; and late and morning, privily, desperately, she'd drenched and drenched, but could not rid her belly of the seed. She's Ashes still. Still guising, in a tinker's jacket, oh, a brave lad, with her bloody hole. Caught in Ashes. Holed up. Crouching, clenching, in her darklong pain, she'd heard the shadows of the women mocking, turning out the pockets of the coat. Knife. Haws. Pebbles. Eggshells. There, the whirligig she'd cried for, that she'd broken, long years since. They hold up a skint and bloody hare. Here's one been poaching. Shivering, she shuts her eyes, but still she sees the brat like bruised fruit trodden in the grass, the cry between her legs. Windfall for the old ones. Ashes to ashes. His furled hand, like bracken. His blind mouth at her tit. If they'd found him there, they'd slain him, for the earth to drink. Keep nowt. She'd hung no rags to the hallows tree, when she'd left him. She'd not beg awd ones. And she'd nowt to give. Her hair was cut long since and burned. Her tongue was dry. But she'd wrapped him in a stolen jacket, nowt of Ashes. Twined a stranger's tawdry ring about his neck. Why? For the daws to pyke at? She's seen the crows make carrion of halfborn lambs, their stripped skulls staring from their mother's forks. On the slates, the dry rain dances, shards of Annis, shards of souls. Heel of hands against her aching eyes, until it's red, all red as foxes, and their green stench in the rain.

Jack   Daw's  Pack  —  311
Coffer and Keys
At Hallows Eve, Ashes' mother hunts, unthralled from her stone. She is the wintersoul, the goddess of the high wild places, fells and springs and standing stones, the mistress of the deer. Her child's her prey.
Her mother Annis hates her, that her child (her child) is not herself. She wears her daughter at her throat in chains of ice, her blood as rings; she tears the new Sun, red with birthblood, from her daughter's side.
In winter, Ashes dies, is graved within her mother's dark.
And her bairn's shut up in Annis' kist, says an old wife, jangling her bunch of keys. Down where she sits i' dark, and tells her hoard of souls. And he's Sun for her crown. So all t'world's cold as Law and blind as herself. She leans and whispers. D'ye hear her at window with her nails? The dark-eyed children huddle by the hearth and stare at her, the old wife crouching with her cards of wool. Her shadows cross her shadows, like a creel unweaving. Ah, but he's for Mally's lap, she haps him all in snow. It's winter and her loom is bare. Wood's her cupboard, and her walls are thorn; her bower's all unswept. Thou can't get in but she lets thee. And she's Tom Cloud's nurse. But Brock—ah, well no, Brock's death's gossip and she's keys to all locks. Will I tell ye how Brock stole him?
Why? says the boldest.
For a bagpipe that plays of itself, says the eldest, as she rocks the babby. Hush, ba.
For a bellows til her blaze.
Not for Annis.
But there are some say Ashes journeys on the river of her milk, that she's the lost star from the knot of stars they call Black Annie's Necklace, or Nine Weaving, or the Clew, that rises with the fall of leaves, a web like gossamer and rain.
The Nine are sisters, and they weave the green world and the other with a mingled skein of light and dark, weave soul and shroud and sail; but Ashes winds the Sun within her, that the old Moon shears.
And some say no, that Ashes is a waif on earth, and scattered with the leaves. She rocks the cradle in the midnight kitchen, where no coal nor candle is, in houses where a child has died. And some have heard her lulling in the dying embers; seen her shadow in the moonspill, in the leaf's hand at the pane.
Poppyheads
The woman in the stubble field moves slowly, searching. Her palms are creased with blood. Her tangled hair is grey. There is something that she's lost: a knife among the weeds, a stone from off her ring. Her child, she says. If you suckle at her dry breast, drink her darkness, she must speak your fortune, love and death. She once told other fates, with other lips. And still she squats among the furrows, lifting up her ragged skirts for anyone or none. She holds herself open, like an old sack in a barn. No seed within, all threshed to chaff and silence. She was Ashes. She is no one. By the sticks of the scarecrow, she crouches, scrabbling at the clodded earth and crying, "Mam. Mam, let me in!"

312  —  Greer   Gilman
Sieve and Shears
There must be one called Ashes at the wren's wake, when they bring the sun. At Hallows, she is chosen. All the girls and women go with candles, lating on the hills. And if a man by chance (unchance) should see one, she will say she's catching hares, she's after birds' nests, though it rattle down with sleet and wind. They both know that she lies. Her covey are not seeking with their candles, but are sought. And one by one, the tapers dwindle, or are daunted by the wind; the last left burning is the chosen. Or they scry her in an O of water from the Ashes spring, at midnight, when the Nine are highest. They will see her tangled in their sleave of light, as naked as a branch of sloethorn, naked as the moon. And though the moon in water's shaken by their riddling hands, its shards come round and round. Then swiftly as the newfound Ashes runs, longlegged as a hare, she'll find the old coat waiting at her bed's head, stiff with soot and sweat and blood. She walks in it at Lightfast, on the longest night, the sun's birth and the dark of moon. She smutches children's faces with her blacknailed hands. And their mothers say, Be good, or she will steal thee. Here's a penny for her bag. Her mother's tree is hung (thou knows) with skins of children, ah, they rattle like the winter leaves, they clap their hands.
The Scarecrow
The starved lad in the cornfield shivers, crying hoarsely as the crows he flights. He claps them from the piercing green, away like cinders into Annis' ground. Clodded feet, cracked clapper, and his hair like what's o'clock, white dazzle. Piss-a-bed, the sheep-lads cry him. What he fears is that the Ashes child will dance among the furrows, rising to his cry. What he fears is that the crows will eat him. They will pick his pretty eyes. And he dreads his master's belt. Yet he sings at his charing. At nights, he makes the maids laugh, strutting valiant with the kern-stick, up and down. Hunting hares? calls Gill. Aye, under thine apron, he pipes, as the Sun does, guising. And they laugh and give him barley-sugar, curds and ale. Thou's a bold chuck, cries Nanny. Will 1 show thee a bush for thy bird? And he, flown and shining, with the foam of lambswool on his lip, I's not catched one. But 1 will, come Lightfast. I'll bring stones. How they crow! And Mall with the jug cries, My cage is too great for thy cock robin, 'twill fly out at door.
Now he shakes with cold and clacks his rattle, and the cold mist eats his cry. The Ashes child will rise, unsowing from the corn: a whorl of blood, a waif. Craws Annis will crouch in the hedgerow, waiting; she will pounce and tear him with her iron nails, and hang his tatters from the thorn. Jack Daw will make a fiddle of his bones. He knuckles at his stinging eyes. He wants to cry. He sings. Back and forth, he strides the headland, as the guisers do, and quavers. My mother was burned as a witch, My father was hanged from a tree. . . . When he sees the hare start from the furrow, he yells, and hurls a stone.
The Hare, the Moon
The moon's love's the hare, his death is dark of moon. He is her last prey, light's body, as the midnight soul, night's Ashes, is her first: All Hallows Eve, May Eve,

Jack   Daw's   Pack  —   313

her A and O. In spring, the waning of her year, she hunts in green: not vivid, but a cold grey green, as pale as lichened stone; afoot, for her hunt is scattered. And she hunts by night. Where her feet have passed is white with dew. Swift and mad, the hare runs, towards hallows, to the thicket's lap, unhallowing in white. He sees the white moon tangled in her thorn. Her lap is sanctuary. He would lie there panting, with his old rough jacket torn, his blood on the branches, red as haws. But at dawn, the hey is down. The white girl rises from the tree; she dances on the hill, unknowing ruth. Yet he runs to her rising, eastward to the sky. Behind him runs his deerlegged death, his pale death. There are some now blind have seen her, all in grey as stone, grey green in moving. No another says, as red as a roe deer or the moon in slow eclipse. At dawn, she will be stone.
They are sisters, stone and thorn tree, dark and light of one moon. Annis, Malykorne. And they are rivals for the hare, his love, his death; each bears him in her lap, as child, as lover and as lyke. They wake his body and he leaps within them, quick and starkening; they bear him light. Turning, they are each the other, childing and devouring: the cauldron and the sickle and the cold bright bow. Each holds, beholds, the other in her glass. And for a space between the night and morning, they are one, the old moon in the new moon's arms, the paling of her breast. The scragged hare slips them as they clasp. He's for Brock's bag, caught kicking.
Masks
Wouldst know thy fortune? her lover says. And laughing, as his bright hair ruffles at her breath, Ah. What's o'clock?
Not yet, she says, low-voiced. (The stone in his ear, like the blood of its piercing. The bruised root stirring on his thigh.) Not dawning yet. Nor moon nor sun.
Will not it rise? he says, rounding.
And go to seed. She smiles, remembering. Not yet. I've plucked it green.
The Rattlebag
The boy kneels, drunken, in the barn. They hold her down for him, the moon's bitch, twisting, cursing in the filthy straw. A vixen in a trap. He holds the felly of the cartwheel, sick and shaken, in the reeling stench. Cold muck and angry flesh. Their seed in snail tracks on her body, snotted in her sootblack hair. Their blood—his own blood—in her nails. She is Ashes and holy. He fumbles, tries to turn his face. He's not thirteen. "Get it into her, mawkin!" calls the bagman, wilting. Ashes and fear. "Thinks it's to piss with." "Hey, crow-lad! Turn it up a peg." "Spit in t'hole." And the man with the daggled ribbons, his fiddle safe in straw, cries, "Flayed it's thy mam?"
The Hare, the Moon (Turned Down)
The black hare's bonny, as they sing: she lies under aprons, she's love under hedges. And she's harried to the huntsman's death, the swift undoing of his gun. But the white hare's death, they say: a maid forsaken or a child unmourned,

314  —  Greer   Gilman
returning from her narrow grave. A love betrayed. Her false lad will meet her on the moor at dusk, a pale thing fleeting; he will think he gives chase. But she flees him and she follows, haunting like the ghost of love. She draws him to his death. And after he will run, a shadow on the hills, a hare: the moon's prey and her shadow. Love's the black hare, but the white is death. And one's the other one, now white, now black, and he and she, uncanny as the changing moon. They say the hare lays eggs; it bears the sun within a moon. A riddle. Break it and there's nought within.
Riddles
He holds her ring up, glancing through it with his quick blue eye; and laughs, and pockets it. A riddle. What's all the world and nothing?
O, says she, thine heart. 'Tis for any hand. Thyself would fill it. And he, Nay, it is th' owl in thine ivy bush. It sulks by day. 
Aye, says she, and hares by night. 
Thy wit, all vanity and teeth. 
Thy grave.
At midnight, then? I'll bring a spade and we'll dig for it. His 
white teeth glimmer, ah, he knows how prettily; and daring 
her, himself (for the thorn's unchancy, and this May night 
most of all), he says, At the ragtree?At moonrise.
Waking Wood
Between the blackthorn and the white is called the moon's weft, as the warp is autumn, Hallows, when her chosen sleeps. He dreams of lying in her lap, within the circle of her flowering thorn; his dreams wake wood. Between the scythe and frost he's earthfast, and his visions light as leaves. He keeps the hallows of the earth. And winterlong he hangs in heaven, naked, in a chain of stars. He rises to her rimes. When Ashes hangs the blackthorn with her hail of flowers, white as sleet, as white as souls, then in that moon the barley's seeded, and the new green pricks the earth. He's scattered and reborn. As in the earth, so in the furrows of the clouds, his Sheaf is scattered, whited from the sky until he rises dawnward, dancing in his coat of sparks. He overcrows the sun; he calls the heavens to the earth to dance. And in their keep, the Nine weave for their sister's bridal, and their threads are quick, their shuttles green and airy, black and white and red as blood. They clothe her in her spring and fall. In the dark before May morn, the Flaycraw dances, harping for the Nine to rise, the thorn to flower and the fires to burn, the wakers on the hills to dance. The hey is down, they cry. Craw's hanged! They leap the fires, lightfoot; crown their revelry with green. Not sloe. The blackthorn's death and life-in-death; the white is love. The bride alone is silent, rounding with the sun.

Jack   Daw's  Pack  —  315
Riddles, Turned
She looks at him though all her rings. There's mischief in her face, a glittering on teeth and under lids. An you will, I may.
Quickening
At quickening, the white girl rises, lighter of herself; she undoes her mother's knots. Alone of all who travel Brock's road backward, out of Annis' country, out of death, she walks it in her bones, and waking. Neither waif nor wraith nor nimbling hare, but Ashes and alone. The coin she's paid for crossing is of gold, and of her make: her winter's son. Yet she is born unknowing, out of cloud. Brock, who is Death's midwife, sains her, touches eyes, mouth, heart with rain. She haps the naked soul in earth.
All the dark months of her prisoning, in frost, in stone, her shadow's walked the earth, worn Ashes outward, souling in her tattered coat. She's kept the year alive. But on the eve of Ashes' rising, the winter changeling is undone. From hedge to hall, the women and the girls give chase, laughing, pelting at the guis-ers' Ashes, crying, Thief! Bright with mockery and thaw, they take her, torn and splattered, in the street. What's she filched? Craw's stockings. Cat's pattens. Hey, thy awd man's pipe! And mine. And mine. Gibing, they strip her, scrub her, tweak the tangles from her hair, the rougher for her knowing. All she's got by it—small silver or the gramarye of stars—is forfeit. All her secrets common as the rain. And they scry her, and they whisper—is it this year? From her Ashes? Is't Sun for Mally's lap? They take her coat, her crown, her silence. Naked and nameless then, she's cauled and comforted, with round cakes and a caudle of the new milk. She is named. Then with candles they wake Ashes, and with carols, waiting for the silent children and the first wet bunch of snowdrops at the door.
They say that Ashes wears the black fell of an unborn lamb; her feet are bare. She watches over birthing ewes and flights the crows that quarrel, greedy for the young lambs' eyes. Her green is wordless, though it dances in the wind; it speaks. Her cradle tongue is leaves. And where she walks grow flowers. They are white, and rooted in the darkness; they are frail and flower in the snow. It is death to bring them under a roof; but on the morn of Ashes waking, only then, her buds are seely and they must be brought within, to sain the corners of the hearth. The country people call them Drops of Ashes' Milk. She is the coming out of darkness; light from the tallow, snowdrops from the earth, Bride from the winter hillside; and from Hell, the child returned.
She is silent, Ashes; but she sings her tale. The guisers strung the fiddle with her hair, the crowd of bone. It sings its one plaint, and the unwed, unchilded, dance:
My mother bare me in her lap, Turn round, the reel doth spin; 
As white the cloth she wove for me, 
As red my blood within. 
As black the heart she bore to me, 
As white the snow did fall;

316  —  Greer   Gilman
As brief the thread she cut for me; 
A swaddling-band, a pall.
The Ragthorn
It was lightward and no lover. Whin sat by the ragtree, casting bones. There were rings on her every finger, silver, like a frost. They caught and cast, unheeding, caught and cast. A thief, a journey by water. Sticks and crosses. All false.
The thorn was on a neb of moorland, at the meeting of two becks: a ragthorn, knotted with desires, spells for binding soul with soul and child in belly. Charms for twisting heartstrings, hemp. They were bright once and had faded, pale as winter skies. Bare twigs as yet. The sloe had flowered leafless, late; the spring was cold. In the moon-blanched heath a magpie hopped and flapped and eyed the hutchbones greedily. He scolded in his squally voice. "Good morrow, your lordship, and how is her ladyship?" called Whin. She knew him by his strut and cock: his Lady's idle huntsman, getting guads in his beak. The bird took wing. The bare bones fell. "Here's a quarrel," she said, and swept them up, and cast again. When Ash came, she would rend him, with his yellow hair. Or bind him to her, leave him. Let him dangle, damn his tongue. She'd dance a twelvemonth on his grave. Ah, but she would be his grave, his green was rooted in her earth. And she thought of his white teeth in the greeny darkness and his long and clever hands. His hair like a lapful of flowers.
Whin was long-eyed, dark and somber, with a broad disdainful mournful mouth and haughty chin. But there was mischief in her face, as there was silver glinting in her hair: nine threads, a spiderwork of frost. Her clothes were patchwork of a hundred shades of black, burnt moorland, moleskin, crows and thunder; but her scarf was gold, torn silk and floating like a rag of sunrise. Looking up, she started—even now—and then she sighed and whistled softly, through her teeth. "Yer early abroad," she said. "Or late. T'fires are out."
Down the moor came a woman, slowly, feeling with a stick, and a child before her on a leash, its harness sewn with bells. Its hair was hawkweed. When it stumbled, it rang; she jerked it upright. Whin watched in silence as the two came onward: the beggar groping with her blackshod stick, the white child glittering and jangling. They were barefoot. She was all in whitish tatters, like the hook moon, scarved about her crowblack head, and starveling, with a pipe and tabor at her side. When she felt the rags on the branches brush her face, she called, "Wha's there?"
"A traveller," said Whin. "Will you break fast wi' us?"
"Oh aye," said the beggar, with her long hands in the ribbons, harping, harping. "Gi's it here." The blind woman slung down her heavy creel and sat, her stick across her knees, and held out her palm. Whin put bread on it. "Hallows with ye," she said. The long hand twitched like a singed spider; it snatched.
"Since ye'd be casting it at daws afore t'night," said the beggar.
"Wha said I's enough for twa?" said Whin.
The beggar crammed. She wolfed with her white eyes elsewhere, as if it were something else she wanted, that she tore. Her brat hid, grimed and wary, in her skirts, and mumped a crust. "And why else wouldst thou be laiking out ont moor, like a bush wi' no bird in it?" said the beggar. "Happen he's at meat

Jack   Daw's  Pack  —  317
elsewhere." She listened for Whin's stiffening. And grinning fiercely through her mouthful, "D'ye think I meant craw's pudding? Lap ale?" The bluenailed hand went out again, for sausage and dried apple, which she chewed and swallowed, chewed and spat into her fledgling's mouth. "Ye'd best be packing."
Whin drank. Too late to whistle up her dog, off elsewhere. The beggar took a long swig of Whin's aleskin. As she raised her arm to wipe her mouth, her sleeve fell back; the arm was scarry, roped and crossed with long dry welts. "Will you drink of mine?" she said, mocking; and undid her jacket for the clambering child, for anyone. Her breast was white as sloethorn.
Whin was cutting sausage with her streak of knife, and whistling softly through her teeth, as if her heart were thistledown, this way and that. ". . . If I was black, as I am white as the snow that falls on yon fell dyke ..."
The child suckled warily; it burrowed. The beggar pirled its hair; she nipped and fondled, scornfully. "It fats on me. D'ye see how I am waning?" She was slender as the moon, and white; and yet no girl, thought Whin: the moon's last crescent, not her first. Her hair was crowblack in a coif of twisted rags, the green of mistletoe, and hoary lichen blues. At her waist hung a pipe of a heron's legbone and a tabor of a white hare's skin. She had been beautiful; had crazed and marred. Her eyes were clouded, white as stones. There was a blue burn on her cheek, like gunpowder, and her wolfish teeth were gapped. Yet her breast was bell heather; her hands moved like moorbirds on her small wrists. They were voices, eyes. Looking elsewhere, she called to Whin, "You there. See all and say nowt. Can ye fiddle? Prig petticoats? I c'd do wi' a mort."
Whin said, "I's suited."
"And what's thou here about?"
"Gettin birds' nests," said Whin, all innocence.
"What for, to hatch gowks?"
"Crack eggs to make crowds' of."
"And what for?"
"Why, to play at craw's wake."
The beggar wried her mouth. "Tha'rt a fool."
"And what's thou after?" said Whin. "Has thy smock blown away?"
"Hares," said the beggar.
"Black or white?"
"All grey to me." The beggar set the child down, naked in its cutty shirt. "Gang off, I's empty as a beggar's budget."
"Wha's brat is thou?" said Whin to the babby.
"No one's. Cloud's," said the beggar.
"Ah," said Whin.
The beggar did up her jacket. The child sat by her petticoats with a rattle; a wren tumbled round within a clumsy cage. "Will we do now?"
"How's that?" said Whin.
"Ah," said the beggar. "I give and take. My ware is not for town." She looked sidelong. Like a snake among heather roots, her hand was in her petticoats. She found something small and breathed on it, spat and rubbed and breathed. "Here," she said to Whin, holding out a round small mirror. "Is't glass?"
"It's that." It was clouded, cold; she held it gingerly. There was earth on it, and in the carving. It was bone. She looked in it and saw another face, not hers:

318  —  Greer   Gilman
a witch, a woman all in green, grey green. A harewitch. A green girl, gaunt and big with child. The beggar was listening with her crooked face. "No," said Whin. "My face is me own."
"A pretty toy," the beggar said. "An ape had worn it in his cap."
Whin turned it; she ran her thumb round the edge. Earth bleared it. There was gravedust on her hands; she dared not wipe them. She kept her voice light. There are witches on the walk, between times. If you meet them, you must parry. "Here's thieving. Does they wake when yer come and go?"
"They keep no dogs," said the beggar. "And they sleep. This?" Between her hands was a scarf like an April sky, warped with silver. It was cloud and iris, changing. It was earthstained, like the sky in water in a road, a rut. She drew it through and through her hands. A soul.
"Here's a fairing," said Whin, and shivered.
"Aye, then," said the beggar. "There's a many lads and lasses gangs to't hiring at that fair, cross river, and they bring twa pennies til their fee." Her voice grew deeper. " 'Here's fasten penny,' they says. And mistress til them, 'Can tha reap? And can tha shear?' " Her fingers found the wafted scarf; they snatched it from the air. "And then they's shorn."
Whin watched it fluttering. The scarf had changed, like brown leaves caught in ice. "That's not on every bush. Was never a hue and cry when you—?"
"Cut strings? Wha said I did?" Her fingers brushed, ah, lightly, at Whin's neck, where the gold scarf flaunted, like a rag of dawn.
Whin flinched, but flung her chin up. "I've a fancy to't drum."
"I's keeping that," said the beggar. "For't guising."
"Did yer gang wi' them? Guisers?"
"I were Ashes."
"Ah," said Whin.
The child in the heather clapped its hands, it crowed. At its jangling, the small birds rose and called. Whin looked sidelong at it, smiling through her rings. "And you getten yer apron full. Here's catching of hares."
The beggar twitched its string. "I'd liefer gang lighter."
"Cold courting at Lightfast. Find a barn?"
"Back of Law, it were, and none to hear us. It were midnight and past, and still, but for t'vixens crying out on t'fell. On clicketing, they were, and shrieked as if their blood ran green. But for t'guisers ramping. See, they'd waked at every door, they'd drank wren's death. And went to piss its health at wall. 'Up flies cock robin,' says one, 'and down wren'; and another, 'Bones to't bitches.' 'And what'll we give to't blind?' says third, and scrawns at fiddle. 'Here's straw?' they said. 'And threshed enough,' said I. But they'd a mind to dance, they'd swords. D'ye think brat's like its father sake? Is't Sun? Or has it Owler's face, all ashes? Hurchin's neb? Think it one of Jack Daw's get?"
"Nine on one?" said Whin, furious.
The stone-eyed beggar shrugged.
"Dogs."
"Boy and all," said the beggar. "They set him on." Thrub thrub went the fingers on the little drum and stopped the windless pipe. They pattered. "Happen not his brat. Nor old man's nowther. Cockfallen, he were." She leaned

Jack   Daw's  Pack  —  319
toward Whin's silence, secret, smiling with her wry gapped mouth. Her eyes were changeless. "But I marked 'em, aye, I marked 'em all." She drew a braid of hair from underneath her cap, undid the knot with swift sure fingers. Moving on the wind, the trees was silver, black and silver. It was wind, as full of blackness as the northwind is of snow. "There," she said. In her fingers was an earring, gold, with a dangling stone, a bloodred stone. "D'ye know its make?"
Whin sat. Her hands were knotted, rimed with rings. False, said her heart's blood. False. The black hair stirred and stirred, so much of it, like shadow. The beggar leaned toward her silence, with her scarred white throat. "Is't torn, his ear?" She flipped the earring, nimbly as a juggler, tumbling it and sliding it on and off each finger, up and down. "What will you give for't?"
The child's white hair was dazzling in her eyes, like snow, like whirling snow. Whin turned her face. "It's common enough." But the needles of the light had pierced her; she was caught and wound in hinting threads.
The beggar palmed it, pulled it from the air. "And which of nine?" she said, her white face small amid her hair, like shadow. "There was one never slept that night, nor waked after. Drowned," she said. "Wast thine? They found him in Ash Beck. They knowed him by his yellow hair, rayed out i't ice. Craws picked him, clean as stars. Or will. Or what tha will. Wouldst barley for a death?"
Her fingers pattered on the drum. "That's one. And which is thine? There's one he s'll take ship and burn. He s'll blaze i't rigging, d'ye see him fall? And ever after falling, so tha'lt see him when tha close thine eyes. That's one.
"And one s'll dance ont gallows, rant on air. Is't thine? His eyes to feed ravens, his rags to flay crows. D'ye see them rising? Brats clod stones. And sitha, there's a hedgebird wi' a bellyful of him. And not his eyes. She stands by t'gallows. D'ye see her railing? That's one.
"And one s'll be turned a hare and hunted, dogs will crack his bones. There's a pipe of his thighbone and a drum of his fell. And tha s'll play it for his ghost to dance. And there's a candle of his tallow, for to light thee to bed. With such a one, or none, or what tha will. That's one. And which is thine?" She leaned closer. "D'ye take it? Is it done?"
Whin said nothing, caught in rime.
"Is't done?" said the beggar, chanting.
"And if it's done?"
Whin's fingers found the knot of the child's leash; undid it stealthily.
"Is't done?"
"Undone and all to do," cried Whin, springing up.
The whitehaired child had slipped his lead; he whirled and jangled as he ran. His hair was flakes of light. He whirled unheeding on the moor. And childlike fell away from him, like clouds before the moon, the moon a hare, the hare a child. He lowped and whirled and ranted. Whin caught him; he was light, and turning in her blood to sun. She bore it. By its light, she saw the beggar's shadow, like a raven on the rimy earth, that hopped and jerked a shining in its neb, a glass. A thief! the raven cried. Whin stood, as if the cry had caught her, in the whirring of the light like wings, a storm of wings; held fast. The child was burning in her hands, becoming and becoming fire. And she herself was changing. She was stone; within her, seed on seed of crystal rimed, refracted. She was nightfall,

320  —  Greer   Gilman
with a keel of moon, and branching into stars. She was wood and rooted; from her branches sprang the light, the misselchild. In that shining she was eyes of leaves, and saw her old love's blood, like holly, on the snow.
The child in the embers crowed, A thief!
And at his cry, Whin turned and ran, but still she held him fast. Behind her, the white-eyed woman shrank and whirred; the raven in her quillied out and rose, black-nebbed and bearded, with a woman's breasts. The waters of the beck leapt white. Amid the raven's storm of hair, its face, a congeries of faces, gaped for blood. Whitebrowed and ironbeaked; but its body was a woman's, cold and perfect to the fork: that too was beaked and gaping. It was shadow, casting none. Its very breath unhallowed.
Sun. The raven cried to its rising, "She's stolen my milk!" as Whin leapt the blackrocked foaming river. Cried and withered, like a flake of ash, and all its eyes went out.
The moor was sticks and ashes; frost and fire.
Whin held a heap of embers in her hands. They sang with dying, fell and faded into ashes. They were cold. She dared not spill them. With a shrug of her sleeve, she wiped her eyes, glittering with soot and tears.
The sun had risen. Whin turned from it and turned. White. A mist, a hag wreathed round and round her, cloud cold as law. Beyond her, by the tree, she saw a white moor and a standing stone, unshaped. An iron crown was on it, driven deep with iron tangs, and rusting. There were nailholes where the eyes should be. The tree was silver, bowed beneath a shining weight of ice, in rattling shackles of glass. They cracked and glittered, falling. As she turned away, Whin saw a girl unbending from the tree, a knee as rough as bark; or nothing, wind among the rags.
And as she looked, the frost was flowering, the tree was white with bloom.
The Thief
At the moorsend guisers came, in rags, in ashes, garlanded with green. They wore their coats clapped hindside fore; and a man in petticoats swept round them with a broom. A thief! A thief! they called, and clodded earth at the ravenstone. Craw's hanged, they cried. They paid no heed of Whin. A boy set garlands, rakish, on its crown. A girl in green tatters stooped for the beggar's blackshod stick, flung down; she strode it and she cantered, flourishing her whip. Moonbent and moledark, Hurchin tried his bagpipe, with a melancholy wheeze and yowl and buzzing, like a cat among wasps. Ragtag and bagpipe, they ranted and crowed.
There was one among them, in and out, unseen: a smutchfaced little figure, dark and watchful, with a heavy jangling pack. A traveller by kindred: breeched and beardless, swart and badgerly of shoulders. By its small harsh voice, a woman, so Whin guessed. And dressed as Ashes in the guisers' play. She wore grey breeches and a leathern cap, a coat of black sheepskins, singed and stained about the cuffs with ashes and with blood. Her hair was shorn across the brows and braided narrowly with iron charms. The hag had grizzled it; a hand undid the years.
"Hallows wi' thee," said Brock, nodding.

Jack   Daw's  Pack  —  321
"And with ye," said Whin. What river had she leapt?
"Crawes Brig," the traveller said, and crossed to meet Whin at the beckside, stone to stone. Sifting through the flinders in Whin's hands, she found a something, round and tarnished; thumbed it to a gleam. A coin. She spun it round. The one side was obliterate—an outworn face, a bird?—on the other was a rayed thing, like a little star or sun. "That'll pay for't dance," said Brock, and smiled, small and sharp as the new moon. She took a bag of craneskin from her sleeve, and held it open for the ashes. There were coins in it and bones; she drew it tight. "Undone," she said, "and all to do."
Whin bared her throat, undid her scarf and jacket to the heart; she bowed her head beneath the cord. She saw at heart a shadow of the deepless water and the pale boat riding, shrouded with her soul. Brock hung the soulbag at her throat; she marked Whin's face with ash.
Whin gazed at her. "It's your coat Ashes wears."
"Aye," said Brock. "It's lent for travelling. Way's cold in but thy bones."
Whin said, "It's bonny on this earth, this morn; I'd linger."
And Brock said, "D'ye think it's dead alone as dance?"
Whin said, "I saw yon lady's scarf, her soul; she will not dance."
"Will she not?" A wind in the quickthorn shook the silver on the trees. Whin saw a grove of girls, of sisters, woven in their dancing, scarved in light. A hey as white as hag. Nine Weaving. "She dances now," said Brock. "She's rising into dawn, and rooted; she is walking from her mother's dark, toward winter, ripening until t'moon reaps her and she lies i' dark. Plum and stone. And she'll gang heavy til she's light."
"What's she?" But Whin had seen her in the glass, and barefoot in the shards of glass.
"Left hand til her mother's right, white's black. Not waning but t'childing moon. Unwitch, unmaiden and unwise. Her mother's sister and her make. Thysel."
"Her mother?" Whin did not name Annis.
"Aye, t'awd witch got her in her glass. And keeps her." Brock looked sidelong at the stone, the hill. Whin saw it, through and through, as black as sky. It was a woman sleeping, with the hooked moon at her heart, and stars and gatherings of stars within her side. She was the fell they stood upon, her hair unwreathing in a coil of cloud.
"How—?"
"She quickens wi' herself," said Brock. "She's moon, and mews her daughter in her dark. But I've keys to all locks, and I come and go. When's time, I s'll call on witch and steal her daughter to't dance. Will yer gang wi' me?"
Whin said, "I were Ashes."
"Ah," said Brock.
The scarf was in Whin's ashy hands; she ran it through and through a ring. "It were guising at Lightfast, and he'd bright long hair. Outlandish. I were fifteen, so I went down moor with him. I never see'd his face."
"So yer gotten a bairn?"
"Me mam and her gran—they'd've ta'en him and slain him. For an Ashes child. And sown his blood wi' t'corn. And they'd bind me til them, sleep and waking, while I's light of him. And whored me after. I left him under ragthorn."

322  —  Greer   Gilman
The scarf was knotted. "And I prayed no crows'd come, nor foxes. But I never stayed. I never turned til home. I's walking since."
Brock's eyes were shadowed in her hair. "And what d'ye think? Here's a woman weeping and she laps her child i't shroud; she lulls her fondling on her knee. Her nails are broken, for she's graved it with her hands. Her milk is sore. And here's an old crone wailing, that she cannot comfort them. It's winter, and her loom is bare. And here's a fondbegotten brat, and nowther clout nor cladding til his arse. Tom Cloud. And thorn's his lap. And here's a vixen and her seven cubs; she dances like a flake of fire, crying, Blood! There's a many tales. And which is his?"
Whin said, "I'd want him well and growed." "And thysel?"
"Away," said Whin. "I'd not be ended in a tale."
Brock tilted her face; the small cold iron clinked and jangled. "And here's a lad roved out wi' guisers— "No," said Whin, struck cold.
"And which?" said Brock. "And when? It's done, and long since done, and all to do."
Whin rubbed her hands against her breeches, crumpling the stormy scarf; the ash was pale against her clothes. Her blood was branching ice. And which is thine? the beggar said, herself met barefoot on the road. What child was sacrifice? And who had laid her down? "He's not—He's— "What moon makes of him."
Whin looked where the white tree shone. "And yet she dances." "In her turn, and with him, in her turn. She bears him in her lap." "I'd set her free."
"It's guisers turn all tales, and wake her to't dance. There's never endings. Will tha play for us?" "A while," said Whin.
The rout came onward, fluttering with strips of rags. They shook a knot of bloody ribbons in her face. She knew them all by part. That broad-faced shepherd with the crown of horn. The old man with the bundled swords, the stripling with his pipe and drum. Those ranting lads. The Fool. The Awd Moon, with his petticoats and broom. Herself, with the box of coins, the bag of ashes. And the lad with bright unravelled hair. He bore a pole, with a cage of thorns, ungar-landed; the crow within it swung, down-dangled by a leg, its wings clapped open, and its beak agape and stark. Whin took her scarf and tore it, waif by waif, and hung the cage with rags of sun.
Aside and smiling, then she saw the white-haired fiddler raise his bow. Brock held the silver to him, beckoning Jack Daw; she called the tune.
And there began the wheedling of a little pipe, a small drum's thud.
The Guisers
They come like hoarfrost and are gone. In their packs are dreams, lies, memories: the old moon's spectacles; a bunch of rusty keys; a baby's rattle like a wooden wren; spindles and whorls; blunt shears; a half burnt doll; a tangle of bright silks, bent nails; a tallow candle and a knife; a crowd of bone. It sings its old plaint

Jack   Daw's  Pack  —  323
in an outland tongue. They strung it with her hair. Or there are gold rings, chaffered at the door, for nothing, for a gnarl of ginger and a rime; cast shoes of leather. The lady left them, walking into song. 'Twas they who put the grey hawk's feather in her bed. And there's a shirt, a little slashed, once fine, but stained with hanging. They had it from his back. His eyes went to the crows; his bones dance.
If they come as guisers, you must let them in: the slouched one with her bag of ashes; the patched one with his broom of thorn. They bring the sun.