Chapter 104

You Spin Me Right ‘Round

At the advent of the Janvier’s undead plague, I had a brief panic. As a knee jerk reaction, I started some fail-safe policies, actions that would ensure that if all life in Einheath perished, I would still have an adequate supply of crafting materials. I genuinely believe life is more fun with living things in it and the thought of never being able to knit again fills me with horror. To deal with this anxiety, I procured, among other farmyard creatures, a flock of undead sheep. I set them up in well defended pastures full of draugr grass and made sure the fields were well fertilised with mortal remains.

So far the experiment seems to have been a success. I have checked in on them once or twice over the last few months, and to my delight the sheep’s wool appeared to be growing. I figured if the draugr bees can make honey then it stands to reason that draugr sheep can grow their coats. But theories don’t knit scarves.

I skip lazily through the trees in the brisk chill of the morning. I could fly on my broomstick, but I want to feel the forest on my feet. It has been too long since I last just ambled about, pursuing my hobbies, and I intend to enjoy every precious second.

Mist is thick on the ground, and the earth is slightly damp. The air smells like rot and growing. Through my contact with the forest floor I can feel the shape of my domain, stretching away in every direction. Dunbarra Keep, hard and craggy in the distance, pulsates with energy and souls like a massive anthill. My ghost gardens, both at the castle and by my cottage are spots of serene beauty. Springs trickle and rivers gush along their beds. The morning sun warms the groves… I feel it all in my bones.

Spring is confusing. The living parts of the forest are bursting with energy, with the need to expand, to germinate, to reproduce. In every tree, behind every bush, in every stinking hole in the ground animals are pairing off and babies are being made like nobody's business. Being entirely dead, I no longer have reproductive urges but being so intimately connected with the forest is reminding me of things I would rather forget. For the first time in forever, I feel a little lonely.

This side effect of fusing my soul with a forest is not one I foresaw. It is extremely unsettling and I do not like it. The whole thing is preposterous. Absolutely, utterly, ridiculously preposterous. No doubt the feeling will fade with the bluebells. At least I hope it does. Until then I will endure. I walk past a pair of copulating rabbits with pursed lips.

The dead parts of the forest behave in a more seemly fashion so I change my path, and do my best to think about wool.

The shepherd's fort is on gentle hills that mark the boundary of Downing Forest, a few miles south of Lowcroft Gorge. After an hour or so of uncomfortable spring walking, I am there.

A shepherd with an efficient-looking crossbow spots me immediately and raises his arm in greeting. Good. Now the threat of the undead plague is no more, hopefully my sheep will be safe, but it never hurts to take precautions with the things that are most precious.

“Lady Maud!” calls another draugr, running out of a nearby doorway. She is dressed in smart fighting leathers, carries another crossbow across her back, and a crook in one hand. “We’ve been hoping you would visit soon! We sheared the sheep!”

“You did!” I quicken my step in excitement, passing under the shadow of a fortified tower. On the other side of the fortifications I can see the pastures. The grass beneath their hooves gleams strangely under the afternoon sun. Almost, it looks like normal grass, but it is paler. Almost skeletal white in patches, like a tiny forest of glowing blade-shaped bones. The freshly shorn draugr sheep dot the hillside beyond. They look small without their massive coats.

“Can I see the wool?”

The draugr proudly present me with a sack full to the brim with raw wool. The unspun stuff is greasy to the touch and light and fluffy. It is also bizarrely strong. The amount of effort it takes to pull it apart is immense. How delightful, although it will make preparing it challenging. The wool gives off a faint luminescence, and has a peculiar quality of transparence when held up to the light.

“We dulled many sets of shears,” says the draugr shepherd, watching as I strain to separate it.

“I wonder if silver lined ones would work?” I say. “I will see if I can get you some for the next shearing.” Pulling a sack close, I hug it to my chest. A smile settles on my face and will not let go. “Excellent! Thank you! I will take two sacks with me and send a wight with a cart for the rest.”

I practically run all the way home, the wind at my heels and the sacks thumping gently against my back.

Once home I soak the raw wool in a large tube. It is quite dirty, unsurprising given the fact that the undead sheep graze on grass mulched with rotten remains. While it sits in the water I dash over to Little Downing and then to Dunbarra Keep to fetch a spinning wheel and various supplies for furnishing my house. I spend a happy few hours arranging furniture and deciding on a spot for the spinning wheel.

A short while later I am happily carding, working the raw stuff into workable skeins. It is pleasant work and gives me ample opportunity to think. Can I dye the wool? The almost-transparent off white colour is nice enough but looks a little unfinished. I could make dyes from my ghost flowers. Perhaps they would take? Yes, this is a most excellent procrastination.

Just as I am about to sit down to start spinning, a knock at the door startles me. Who can it be? Grumbling under my breath I set the wool aside and ease the door open, letting the twilight spill into my kitchen.

A wild crocus sits on the doorstep. Small and perfect, it is gently purple with a butter yellow stamen. The bulb is resting inside an earth packed shoe. The shoe itself does not look particularly old. Stooping, I pick it up with some curiously, frowning down at the little flower in its odd receptacle. Once again there is absolutely no one in sight. The garden path is deserted, as is the forest beyond.

The leaves of the ghost oak rustle in the evening breeze. I narrow my eyes. Or rather my eye since I still only have one at the moment. The beastie ripped the other out just before the battle of Fairhaven, so it could show me the wonders of the spirit world. With a sigh, I turn back inside and rummage around in my new cellar. After a few minutes I find what I am searching for: the lynx eye that I keep in its very own cold jar.

I pop it into my skull, and slide an embroidered eyepatch over my normal eye. The world blurs strangely, and I poke it in more firmly, waiting for it to settle. The shadows of my new basement solidify, and a few curious eyes peer down at me from the empty shelves. I will investigate those later, but for now I blink furiously as I climb back up the ladder to the kitchen.

Jenkins is resting up there, having colonised one of the new chairs with his fuzzy rump. I wouldn’t give him a second glance but my tightly curled cat seems to have two baby rabbits snuggled against his sides. It is not like him to play with his food. Not that he needs food anymore, but I am well aware that his predatory instincts have not left him in death. Quite the opposite, if the continuous supply of dismembered woodland creatures I find about the place is anything to go by.

“Jenkins?” I ask, a note of curiosity in my voice.

The two rabbits lift their heads at the sound of my voice. Except, they are not rabbits. They are… some kind of fae folk that I have never seen before. I stare. The little fae-folk stare back. Soft, wide brown eyes watching from distinctly humanoid faces. Velvet rabbit’s ears peek up through untidy thickets of bark-brown hair. They are wearing rough sack cloth tunics that seem to be stained with blood. How incredibly bizarre. Jenkins lifts his chin to look at me with a questioning peep?

Shaking my head, I leave the three of them to their cuddle puddle. Who am I to judge? Clearly the horseshoe above my door is not doing its job but they seem to have been invited. For all I know Jenkins has always had house guests and I have simply been unaware. But this is a mystery for another time.

Opening the front door, I stride out into the garden looking around for my visitor. Using cat’s eyes to survey the fae world that overlaps with my own is always a startling experience. As a witch I have always known it was there. As a lich it is my business to deal with spirits. Even so, it takes some getting used too.

The woods around my home are thick with wisps; tiny balls of light drifting between the trees in an ominous ballet. Clusters of dour looking little gnomes are washing their clothes in a pool of blood at the end of my gate. I recognise it as exactly the spot I once severed the head of an unwelcome guest. One of them sees me looking and salutes me smartly.

Skeletal pixies are resting on my draugr lilies. Fragile, gossamer leaf wings carry them around the garden. Some of the smaller ones are racing with the undead bees, making tiny shrieks of delight. Bone white triangle faces peer up at me from beneath a crop of foul smelling mushrooms. One of the shrooms themselves, opens bloodshot eyes to look at me, before scampering away into the undergrowth.

It is wonderful to behold. I could spend hours watching and documenting my discoveries but I want to know why the tree spirit is leaving flowers at my door. There are not many people who would brave my doorstep, living or dead. The tree-spirit is one of the few who would dare.

I catch a glimpse of weathered bark skin, sideling behind a ghost oak.

As I suspected.

The last time I saw him, at the tail end of winter, the branches that sprouted, antler-like from his forehead were bare. Now they are budding green, and there are tiny blossoms in his beard. He has traded his mistletoe crown for daffodils. I can just make out a hint of cloven hoofs beneath mossy trousers.

“Thank you for the flowers,” I call. “But as you can see, I already have plenty.” I gesture to the delicate blooms of my ghost roses that cluster along the garden boundary.

“Don’t you like them?” the spirit demands, shoving his head out. He sounds a little hurt, and the branches of his antlers shiver in agitation. “These are better!”

“No, no they are very lovely,” I say.

“Good,” he says. “I will bring you more tomorrow.”

“But why are they better?”

He stares at me in confusion, honey-brown eyes fixed on mine. “They are alive,” he says at last. And then he vanishes into the gloaming.

Hmpf. I find a spot for the potted crocus, placing the shoe next to my neglected witching altar and patting it gently. They are lovely, and I hope the corruption of my lichy-ness does not harm them. The primroses are thriving in their old boot, but then, it has only been two days. My soul corruption may yet claim them.

Grumbling under my breath I return to my cottage. I have quite lost my desire to spin. Instead I go looking for my throwing bones. It is time to ask for guidance from any passing god or spirit that is willing to give it.