They were less than usual and smelt bad. Everyone agreed that the River was angry because of the Heathens – and they began saying other things too, that we did not hear until later. The floods did not bring as much driftwood as usual, but they washed up strange fish, which nobody liked to eat.
Though Aunt Zara did nothing to help the four of us, we did not go short. We had vegetables from the garden, and the flour was milled from our field. Duck and Hern always catch fish. Duck can find clams by instinct too, I think. The hens were laying well, even in the winter, and we had the cow for milk. Money for other things was scarce, because we had just laid in a great deal of wool when Zwitt’s flock was sheared, before the Heathens came. This I combed and spun and dyed in the ways that my mother had taught Robin and my father, and they have taught me. My mother taught Robin to weave. I was too young to learn when she died, but Robin taught me, and now I do it better than she does. It is that same wool I am using now to weave our story. We did not find much market for my weaving in Shelling that winter. A number of children needed winter rugcoats. But my main – and my best – work is always for weddings. The girls’ families buy my finest rugcoats, with stories and poems in them, to give to the boy they are going to marry. But there were no weddings, with the men all gone. And after we went across the River, no one wanted any of my weaving.
The floods had left us no driftwood to speak of, so we rowed across the River when the leaves started falling to cut wood from the forest on the other side. No one else in Shelling crosses the River. I asked Aunt Zara why once, and she said that the old mill was cursed by the River, and the forest round it, and that they were haunted by a cursed spirit in the shape of a woman. That was why the new mill was built, up along the stream. When I told my father what Aunt Zara said, he laughed and told me not to listen to nonsense. It is quite a pleasure to me to sit weaving in this same old mill, with this same cursed forest round me, at this very moment, and take no harm. There’s for you, Aunt Zara!
The day we cut wood, the light was rich with the end of autumn. It was like a holiday. We broke the stillness of the trees by running about shouting, catching falling leaves, and playing Tig. I do not think there were any spirits who minded, in spite of what Robin said. And she ran about and shouted with us, anyway. She was far more as I remember her, that day, before she grew up and got all shy and responsible. We had lunch sitting on the grass by the old millpool, and after that we cut wood. When the River was pale in the dusk, we rowed back over, with wood heaped in such a stack that the boat was right down in the water and we had to sit still for fear of being swamped. My hair was like a real bush, full of twigs and leaves. I was really happy.
Next day Zwitt and some of the old people came to us with sour faces. They said we were not to pasture our cow with the others in future. “We do not give grazing rights to godless people,” Zwitt said.
“Who’s godless?” Duck said.
“The River has forbidden people to cross to the mill,” Zwitt said. “And you were all there all yesterday. The River would punish you worse than this if you were older.”
“It’s not the River punishing us. It’s you,” said Duck.
Hern said, “You didn’t punish my father for ferrying the strangers over there.”
“Who told you we were there?” I said.
“Zara told me,” said Zwitt. “And you watch how you speak to me, now your father’s away. I won’t stand for rudeness.”
Robin wrung her hands when they had gone. It was her latest ladylike habit, but it meant she was really upset. “Oh dear! Perhaps the spirits over there are angry. Do you think we did offend the River?”
We were not having that. We respect the River, of course, but it is not one of the Undying, and we do not believe in spirits flocking around being angry at everything, the way Zwitt does. I told Robin she was growing up as joyless as Zwitt. Hern said it did not make sense to talk of a river’s being offended.
“And if it is, it ought to punish us, not Zwitt,” said Duck.
“I only meant that it could be offended,” Robin said.
When we had finished arguing, Hern said, “It sounds as if Zwitt was afraid of my father.”
“I wish he’d come back!” I said.
But the months passed and no one came back. Meanwhile, we were forced to move our cow to the edge of the River, just beside our house. We think that was why she never caught the cattle plague all the other cows got. Hern is sure it was. A great deal of mist came off the River that winter and hung about the pasture. Of course our cow was grazing peacefully in the mist most of the time, on the Riverbank, but the other people said it was the mist that brought the disease. When some cows died, and ours had never coughed once, they began giving us very black looks.
Hern was furious. He called them narrow-minded fools. Hern believes there are reasons for everything, and that curses and bad luck and spirits and gods do not make real reasons. “And why is it our fault their wretched cows die?” he demanded. “Because we offended the River, if you please! In that case, why is our cow all right?”
Robin tried to pacify him. “Hern, dear, don’t you think it could be our Undying looking after us?”
“Oh – running river-stinks!” said Hern, and flounced out to the woodshed with such a look of scorn that Robin went into the scullery to cry – she cries a lot – and I stood on the hearth wondering whether to cry too. I do not cry much, so I talked to Duck instead. It is no good talking to Robin, and Hern is so reasonable. Duck is young, but he has a lot of sense.
“Hern doesn’t believe in the Undying,” Duck said. “It’s because they’re not reasonable.”
“Then why didn’t he run away after the army?” I said. “He didn’t, because he’d sworn on the Undying.”
“He didn’t because he saw the army,” said Duck. “Anyway, the Undying aren’t reasonable.”
“Don’t you believe in them either?” I said. I was truly shocked. Hern is one thing, but Duck is younger than me. Besides, we were standing right beside the Undying in their niches, and they must have heard Duck.
Duck turned to look at them. “You don’t have to believe in things because they’re reasonable,” he said. “Anyway, I like them.”
We both looked quite lovingly at our three Undying. Two of them are old. They have been in my father’s family for generations. I can remember lying in my cradle by the fire, looking up at them. Hern says I could not possibly remember, but that is Hern all over. I do remember. The Young One has a face that seems to smile in the firelight, though by daylight you can hardly see his face at all. He is carved of a rosy kind of stone that has worn very badly. You can just see that he is playing a flute, but not much else. The One is even older. It is hard to see what he is really like at all, except that he is a head taller than the Young One. The stone he is made of generally looks rather dark, with glistening flecks in it, but he changes every year when he has been in his fire. The Lady is made of hard, grainy wood. When my father first carved her, just after Duck was born, I remember she was light-coloured like the tops of mushrooms, but she has darkened over the years, and now she is brown as a chestnut. She has a beautiful, kind face.
Duck chuckled. “They’re a lot nicer than Uncle Kestrel’s lump of wood.”
I laughed too. Everyone in Shelling has such awful Undying. Most of them are supposed to be the River. Uncle Kestrel has a piece of driftwood that his father
