A Pocketful of Crows by Joanne M Harris

Author:Joanne M Harris [Harris, Joanne M]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Fairy Tales; Folk Tales; Legends & Mythology, Fantasy, General
ISBN: 9781473222205
Google: EZ1tDgAAQBAJ
Amazon: B078M4MB7N
Publisher: Gollancz
Published: 2017-10-18T22:00:00+00:00

November

The Black Month

Marry in blue, lover be true

Marry in pink, no time to think

Marry in grey, live far away

Marry in brown, soon in the ground

Marry in green, not long to be seen

Marry in yellow, ashamed of your fellow

Marry in black, can never go back

Marry in red, wish you were dead

Marry in gold, your bed will be cold

Marry in white, everything’s right.

Traditional rhyme

One

Now comes the time of the leafless trees, and the geese heading south for the winter. The last of the apples have been picked; the bare fields have been resown. Jack-in-the-Green has put aside his summer coat, and the Winter King rules over the countryside. And the travelling folk have once more moved on; the fires of All Hallows’ Eve burnt down to nothing but embers.

The first of November marks the time when my people go to ground. The fox to his earth; the wolf to his den; the trees to their leafless dreaming. The hawthorn has shed the last of her fruit, and will no longer speak to me. Only the white-headed crow remains to bring me news from the castle.

The wedding is planned for the New Year. Until then, the bride-to-be remains a guest in the castle. The crow sees her occasionally, sitting at her needlework, or looking out of the window towards the distant valley. I see her too, through the golden eye of my stolen wedding ring. A wedding ring is a powerful charm, a window into other worlds. The wedding ring shows me a crow’s-eye view, soaring over the valley.

Not that there is much to see. Fog has come down from the hills, and only the tip of the tower stands above the unbroken whiteness. Underneath, it is damp, and still. The forest is nothing but spider’s webs. My firepit smokes, and my eyes are red. The boredom is worse than anything.

If I were myself again, I would go into a bear, and sleep until the springtime. Or an apple tree, to awaken with the blossom on my branches. Instead, I must sit in my hut and wait, and know that winter is coming.

I wonder what she is sewing, up in her room in the castle. Bridal linen, I expect, to keep her busy through the snows. I imagine pillowcases and sheets, each one embroidered with her name and his, or maybe a silken coverlet, all sewn with blue forget-me-nots.

I wonder who will make her dress, and of what colour it will be. Yellow, perhaps, to go with her hair, or rosebud-pink, or sky-blue. But no. White is her colour. She must wear white on her wedding day. Marry in white: everything’s right. If only the poor April girl had made a more fortunate choice.

I have a loom at the back of my hut. Last year, I made a fine brown rug of lambswool and of horsehair. This winter, I shall make a gown; a gown of every colour. My needle is sharp: my eye is keen. I have all winter to make it.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.