7
THE VICISSITUDES OF HATE
Osric
sric and Fairhrim materialised in Nether Wallop (pub: the Tiddlywink)O and found it to be a pretty country village. They hailed a woman herding sleepy, fat sheep with an enquiry about Widdershins.
“You want the old professor?” The woman pointed down a country lane.
“That way. The burnt-down place. Good luck to you.”
“Why the luck?” asked Osric.
“He’s Away, isn’t he?” said the shepherdess.
“Er—so he’s not there?”
“No,” said the shepherdess, as though Osric was being thick. “He’s Away. He’s there, of course—but he’s not.”
“He’s there but he’s not?”
“Pixie-led, you know,” said the shepherdess.
“Pixie-led?” repeated Fairhrim.
“Fairy-struck,” said the shepherdess.
In the face of Fairhrim’s and Osric’s blank stares, she apparently concluded that she was dealing with two fully licensed cretins, and gave up.
She bimbled off with her charges, muttering that any one of her sheep had more brains than the two of them combined.
The country lane led them to an old, burnt shell of a cottage just outside the village proper. Osric knocked upon the sooty door.
“Do we address him as Professor?” asked Fairhrim. “He’s not one anymore, not really, after the fiasco about the fairy tongues. I suppose it’s just Widdershins. Mr. Widdershins. Let me talk, as we agreed. Don’t threaten him.”
“As we agreed? I never agreed,” said Osric.
“You did. You said All right.”
“I said All right, your approach confirms that you know nothing about intelligence gathering. Not All right, let’s proceed with your amateur plan.”
“My amateur plan? We should be looking for his old publications in archives to see if we can find a copy of the retracted piece about the Stone, not shaking him down in his own home in the middle of the night. This is your amateur plan.”
“I know you enjoy snuffling about in dust for hours on end, but I’d rather go to the source.”
“Your techniques are out-of-date and needlessly cruel.”
“Your way involves a century of research, which is time I simply don’t have.”
“If you’ve got so little time, then why are we going on wild-goose chases instead of following the data?”
“The data has had three chances to prove itself and has failed every time.”
“I told you, that’s the nature of this kind of experiment—which you insisted on pursuing.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t an experiment.”
There was the clearing of a throat.
Osric and Fairhrim looked up to find a round, bald man at the door.
The man had a colander on his head, which did not immediately inspire confidence.
Fairhrim resumed her usual impassivity. She took in the colander with the mere twitch of an eyebrow. “Forgive us for disturbing you at this late hour.
We’re looking for Mr. Widdershins.”
“I’m Mr. Widdershins,” said the man, with an angry sort of emphasis on the Mr. “What d’you want?”
“We’ve got a few questions about the Monafyll Stone,” said Fairhrim.
“We’re conducting a bit of an investigation.”
“An investigation, is it?” asked Widdershins. His anger faded. He looked at a spot somewhere above Fairhrim’s head, and said, “From the Latin vestigium, a footprint or trace.”
Fairhrim took the unsolicited etymology in stride. “Yes. Precisely.”
Widdershins blinked and came back to his tetchy self. “And what are your qualifications, pray? Are you runologists?”
“No.”
“Philologists? Dialectologists? Etymologists? Semioticians?
Archaeologists?”
“Erm—I’m a Haelan,” said Fairhrim.
Widdershins made an unimpressed moue. Fairhrim looked offended.
“If the Stone had an injury, I’m sure she would appreciate that.”
Widdershins turned to Osric. “And you, sir, of the jism white eye?”
This reference to Osric’s Cost might have earned the man a punctured lung, only Fairhrim was there, and would doubtless raise objections.
“I’m an Interested Observer,” said Osric, instead of Assassin-for-Hire.
“An Observer?” repeated Widdershins. “With half the usual amount of eyes? Like Woden, did you give your right eye so your left could See?”
“Never mind about my…companion’s…eyes,” said Fairhrim. “You published something on the Monafyll Stone some time ago, but it was retracted, and we’d like to get our hands on a copy—”
“It was retracted, yes,” cut in Widdershins. “Do you know what else was retracted? My funding. My position. My reputation. My doctorate. That paper ended me. That is the nature of the academy, you know. You mustn’t go too far beyond the bounds of the Accepted. You may lose everything.”
Fairhrim grew grave. “I am aware.”
Osric felt a wave of accusation wash over him, because it was his fault she was straying beyond the bounds of the Accepted.
“Why, then, is a Haelan looking into the Monafyll Stone?” asked Widdershins. “It’s nothing but an archaeological bagatelle for your sort, isn’t it? Or are you intent on running your career directly into a shitpit?”
“Personal curiosity,” said Fairhrim.
Widdershins studied her as though she were a mysterious bit of text to decipher. Then he said, “I’ll give you two silly plums some advice. Hard- earned advice.”
He waved Fairhrim and Osric towards him. They approached. Osric could see Widdershins’ single remaining hair, white, escaping from a hole in the colander.
Widdershins gestured them in farther. They leaned in even more.
“Fuck off,” said Widdershins, loudly, spraying them both with spittle.
He slammed the door shut.
Fairhrim stared at the door. She wiped a fingertip below her eye. A knife danced across Osric’s knuckles.
They heard another door open and close, this time round the back of the cottage. Osric and Fairhrim looked at each other, then cut through a bed of stringy lavender to reach the back garden.
There was a creek behind the cottage, towards which Widdershins was presently wandering, clad in a set of waders. He stripped off his shirt and stepped into the moonlit creek, his colander still on his head.
“He hasn’t got any nipples,” noticed Osric. To Widdershins, he called, “Why haven’t you got any nipples?”
“You can’t just ask people why they haven’t got nipples,” said Fairhrim.
“Lost them in the fire,” said Widdershins.
He splashed about in the creek.
“Mr. Widdershins, what are you doing?” asked Fairhrim. There was
concern in the question.
“Tadpoling. Obviously.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” said Fairhrim.
“Best time for it. Also, fuck off.”
“We want a copy of your article; then we’ll gladly fuck off,” said Osric.
“Have you still got one?”
“It doesn’t exist anymore,” said Widdershins, splashing about. “Burnt everything.”
“Then what did it say?” asked Fairhrim. “What were your findings on the
Stone?”
Widdershins ignored them.
“Leave off the pollywogs and answer the questions,” said Osric.
Widdershins’ expression went vacant again. “Pollywogs. From poll, head, and wiglen, wiggle. A wiggling head.”
“You suspected that the language on the Stone was a fairy tongue,” pressed Fairhrim. “Had you managed to translate it?”
Widdershins addressed a point next to her shoulder. “Translate. From the Latin transferre, a carrying across. There is also the Greek version, metaphrasis. A speaking across—as these things do, you know; they speak to us from across the gulfs of time and tongues long forgot.”
Widdershins removed the colander from his head and plunged it into the creek.
Osric lost his patience. “If this dotard gives us one more bloody etymology—”
“Dotard,” said Widdershins. “From Middle Dutch doten, to be foolish.
Ard indicates a particular quality, usually pejorative. And so we also have drunkard and coward and dullard and laggard.” Widdershins’ dreamy gaze refocused. He looked Osric dead in the eye. “And, of course, bastard, but you’re well acquainted with that one, boy, being such a stellar example yourself.”
Osric turned to Fairhrim and said, informatively: “I’m a cock hair away from murdering this man.”
“I’m not familiar with that unit of measurement,” said Widdershins. He, too, turned to Fairhrim. “How imminent is my demise? What’s the length of a standard cock hair?”
Osric was interested in Fairhrim’s answer—she probably had a cock-hair almanac with data and averages and things—but she did not respond to the query. She brushed past Osric and stood on the bank of the creek. “If we could return to the translation—”
“I’ve caught one,” said Widdershins. He showed Fairhrim the colander, in which a tadpole wiggled.
“Very nice,” said Fairhrim. “Lovely tadpole. But to return to your article —what if we use your findings and prove that you were right?”
“Oh? And how will you do that?” asked Widdershins. “Summon a fairy to corroborate?”
“If you’d tell me what you thought the Stone said—”
“She didn’t say. She may have conveyed, in the most abstract of senses.”
“Right, what it—she—conveyed. The healing ritual—the pattern. If I was to discover that there was some truth to it—that you weren’t wrong, or deluded, or barmy—we could undo some of the misfortunes you’ve suffered.
Reverse the retraction. Have you reinstated as a professor.”
Widdershins said, “You poor, stupid creature,” but it wasn’t clear whether this was addressed to Fairhrim or the tadpole. “I’ve got a bucket for you.”
Fairhrim stood irresolute for a moment before asking, “Sorry?”
Widdershins jerked his round chin towards the back of the garden. “In the shed. That’s my contribution to your reckless endeavour, if you’re so hell- bent on tainting your credibility with this pursuit.”
“I can assure you that I’m not. However”—an eloquent look was cast towards Osric—“circumstances are such that I haven’t a choice in the matter.”
“The galvanised bucket, then,” said Widdershins. “You may keep it.
Drown your sorrows therein when this inevitably ends in tears.”
Widdershins waded farther into the creek and disappeared under the long fronds of the willow trees that edged it. “Galvanised,” came his voice as he went, soft and dreamy again. “From Galvani, surname of an eighteenth- century professor—made the legs of dead frogs twitch.”
Fairhrim watched him go. There was a vertical line between her contracted brows. “Am I going to end up like him?”
“What? Completely nutty?” asked Osric.
“Discredited.” Fairhrim bit her lip. “Stripped of everything that matters.”
“We needn’t worry until you start splashing about in puddles looking for
tadpoles,” said Osric.
“You’re not funny.”
“And you’re not barmy. Stop worrying.”
“I’m not barmy yet. I fear that time spent with you pushes me closer to that edge.”
“Hah,” said Osric, because this was, once again, rich of her. “Let’s go find this bucket.”
They stepped through Widdershins’ overgrown garden to find a dilapidated shed. There, among broken spades and torn wellies and mildew and rust, stood the bucket. It was filled with a dozen large, grey-white, crumbly pieces of—something. Chalk?
Osric would’ve liked to be the first to work it out, but of course Fairhrim beat him to it.
She knelt next to the bucket and pulled out one of the bits. She ran her fingers over its faint markings.
“A plaster cast of the Stone,” she said.
She pulled more pieces out of the bucket and set them out on the floor.
By the time Osric had processed her intentions, knelt down beside her, and begun to study the puzzle, she had finished piecing the bits together.
The Monafyll Stone’s cast, about six feet long, lay in its fragmented
length before them.
“How are you so quick?” asked Osric.
“I’ve stared at pictures of the Stone for hours,” said Fairhrim. “Oh— look.”
Here and there along the pieces, small notes were pinned, written in a slanted hand.
“Widdershins’ translation notes,” said Fairhrim, groping about for her satchel. “Preliminary, I suppose. Read them to me, would you? Begin at the top, there.”
She pulled her notebook from her satchel. Osric had seen the hideous thing before—it was bound with a bright pink spiral and featured a fuchsia cat.
Osric read the fragmented bits of translation. “ ‘Children of the moon.
Faerydom. Cure for all evil’—with three question marks; I don’t think he was confident about that one.”
“Right,” said Fairhrim, glancing up from her writing. “And then?”
“ ‘Beginnings of dawns and ends of evenings.’ Erm. Then he gets into the lunar calendar proper. ‘Hrímfrost Moon—January—Exile. Hyngre Moon— February—Light streaming…’ ”
Fairhrim took notes as he went, resulting in a table drawn in an illegible hand. (“What is this?” asked Osric. “Is that meant to be a number? Five or three? Fouve? Threeve?”)
1. Hrímfrost (Hoarfrost) Moon exile
2. Hyngre (Hunger) Moon light streaming
3. Cúsc (Chaste) Moon dream-laden (?)
4. Hara (Hare) Moon …look through the shinbone of a hare…
5. Blædnes (Blooming) Moon …blackened sun at land’s end
6. Begbéam (Bramble) Moon Running waters cross (?)
7. Hunig (Honey) Moon rainbow (???)
8. Thunor (Thunder) Moon waves draw you under
9. Bédríp (Harvest) Moon that hidden abode
10. Meodu (Mead) Moon the grey path (?), the dim kingdom
11. Gnyrn (Mourning) Moon light and shadow among leaves
12. Endeláf (Last) Moon shadow-quenched
“I had hoped for rather more precise instructions,” said Osric. “This isn’t much to go on.”
“No,” said Fairhrim. “It’s loads to go on.”
“Is it?”
“Well—pretending that it’s correct, of course,” said Fairhrim. “I can use some of these to validate the worst of my speculations. I’ve no idea how Widdershins went about translating this, though. As far as I understand, this is a language isolate. There are no cognates—no linguistic relationships with any known tongue. I suppose he wasn’t able to explain it to his colleagues’
satisfaction, either.”
“Perhaps the tadpoles told him.”
Fairhrim was engrossed in her notebook. “But this is progress. We can make something approaching a plan. These translations will help us prune potential locations considerably. Look at the Blædnes moon—now we know we’re looking for a cliff, or a beach—an edge of some sort, anyway. I can run through my tables and have a tidy-out.”
“D’you think a ‘cure for all evil’ includes seith rot?” asked Osric.
Fairhrim looked up from where she knelt. “If this treatment was a cure
for evil, it would be fatal to you.”
“Oi.”
“So, either way, we may never find out.” Fairhrim placed the plaster pieces back into their bucket.
“You’re taking the bucket?” asked Osric.
“Yes. To catch my tears, or whatever Widdershins said, when this affair inevitably goes awry.” She hoisted the bucket against her hip. “I’m going. I’ll contact you before the next lunation, so that we can proceed with this… lunacy.”
“Horrid pun,” said Osric. “And this affair won’t go awry.”
Fairhrim gave her notebook an exasperated wiggle in Osric’s direction.
“This isn’t science. This isn’t medicine. This is absolute pie-in-the-sky, whimsical, pipe-dream, cloud-cuckoo-land fantasy. And it will go awry, because everything about it is awry.”
“It’s going to work, or we’ll both perish miserably.”
Osric saw that he had offended his Means to an End, and that she was looking particularly Mean. “You’ll perish miserably. I’ll go on with my life as I did before, happy and Fyren-free.”
And, just like that, they were back in the skirmish. They exited the shed.
A fractious wind picked up; it flipped Osric’s hair around and plucked a curling strand out of Fairhrim’s bun.
“You’ll fix me or die with me,” said Osric.
“Oh? It’s threats now, is it?”
“It’s a thing called incentivisation.”
“My only incentive here is a direct order from Haelan Xanthe, and it’s the only reason I haven’t tossed you to the Wardens.”
“Perhaps you should; I’d rather be dismembered than deal with such an uptight little fusspot.”
“Perhaps I will—it’d be a relief to no longer suffer such a useless
ganglion of a man.”
“Ganglion?” repeated Osric.
“Fusspot?” said Fairhrim.
They glared at each other, Osric with vast distaste, so that she understood that she was the world’s most trying woman, and Fairhrim with raw opprobrium, which made it clear that she thought him deficient in brains as well as morals.
Fairhrim was unafraid, violently unafraid, daring him to continue. They stood close. That was the thing about war: every clash, every battle, brought each nearer and nearer to the other. Their breaths intermingled, passed thresholds their lips would never cross. The wrongness of it was almost erotic.
There was a flush across Fairhrim’s cheeks. Osric felt himself swallow.
Suddenly, the eye was not satisfied with seeing; suddenly, the mouth wished to taste.
No more breaths were exchanged, because neither of them breathed. The scarred moon hung above them. Its light fell softly upon blushing cheeks, softly on the strand of hair that clung to Fairhrim’s lip. Her gaze was darkly brilliant. The wind sent dry lavender petals around them like chaff.
Fairhrim, with a blink, drew back. She recovered her usual impassivity, but there was something brittle about it. She whirled her cloak around herself, threw Osric a final glare, and strode away without a parting word.
Osric let her disappear down the road before following her to the waystone. He took his time; he had a post-Fairhrim malaise he needed to walk off.
There was such witchery in a pair of bright eyes.
Pity they had to be hers.
