Saying beck water cold and clear
Will never heal your wound
There's none but the Witch of the Westmoreland
Can make thee hale and sound
There was a tugging on his hair. John couldn't quite comprehend it. Did demons of hell tug on hair? For in Hell he must be - it was the only place for a sinner like himself. The tug came again, but John lay still. He was cold, so cold. Was Hell cold?
There was a croak, as a voice just above his ear called,
'T'other! T'other! Come hither! "Tis a new-slain knight!"
There was a flutter, and a thump near his head.
"Aye, Tane. A knight, sure enow. Be he alone? No squire?"
There was a flop, and T'other complained, "Were no need to strike me."
"Fool. Use thine een. Ne hawk, ne hound, ne squire nearby." A pause. "Nor a lady fair a'tall. Unlucky man."
"Ah, but look thou here! Such bonny gowden hair. We'll theek our nest with it." Another tug at his hair, harder.
"Gowden? Be ye blind! 'Tis liken unto horse-piss colour! Ne thatch not our nest with such!"
Nest? thought John muzzily. Since when did peasant scavengers have nests? With great effort, he forced his gummy eye lids apart, the brightness eye-wateringly blinding.
"Ah, look at his bonny blue een! Pick them out, Tane!"
"Eh, they look fine. I will."
A weight fell upon his wounded shoulder, and he moaned feebly. There was a sudden silence.
"Tane, leave be. This one be not dead yet. Standen ye back, feather brain."
John's lids fluttered, blinking away the tears. Standing on his chest, head cocked, a raven regarded him with curiousity and alarm. Hellas, this was the afterlife. Talking birds?
"Thou art right, T'other. Needs we mote wait a spell."
"Say you true, Tane. That wound will be his end."
John's shoulder gave a great throb of pain at the words. His back arched in agony and John cried out hoarsely. "Mother Mary, save me!"
"She cannaught help. Ne praying either." Tane cocked a bright eye at the blood stain. "The wound is spelled. There be a curse upon ye, and it will consume ye, as a blight upon an apple spreads. More, some metal rings were driven into your flesh."
T'other bobbed up and down. "Ha! Ha! The metal will putrefy thy wound, but first, the magic will be your soul's death!"
At this this, John began to struggle, rocking onto his right side, scattering the two ravens into startled hops. "No! Be it not true!" Dizzy, he lay still again, panting in pain. He could feel the dark spot within him, pulsing and evil. Was it already spreading? His lips began to move, numbly reciting the virtues of knighthood - valour... prowess... courtesy... humility... honour... faith. Faith. A sob choked him.
"N'will we lie to ye. 'Tis a powerful magic laid upon ye. We can see. Know ye not that ravens are messengers of the gods? We haf the Sight. And speech of Man."
"Ne can I die like this!" John lay with the side of his face pressed to the cold earth. Hot drops fell from his eyes to spatter on the ground.
"Will you or nill you, man. 'Twere all the same to us," cawed Tane.
"Aye. Beck water cold and clear will never clean your wound." volunteered T'other callously.
"There be but one - Ow!" cried Tane. "Why dost thou peck me?"
"Ne speaken naught, you fool," spoke the other in a mutter. John's heart leapt.
"What say you? Be there someone who may heal my wound?" he whispered.
"Nay, nay," cawed T'other, hopping from side to side. "It were no use. Lie you down, man. Die. We need thy hair."
Tane looked betrayed, ruffling his glossy black feathers at T'other. "N'will we naught -! I forbade ye to think on't! The colour -!"
John loosened his grasp on his shield, freeing his left arm. He gritted his teeth, and used his good right arm to push himself to sitting position. The world swam in streaks of colour, then settled. He looked at the two ravens. "Tell me true. Praying will not help me, ye say. Who on earth hast the skill to treat my wound?"
"Lively corpse, is't naught?" said T'other. "He doth interest me."
Tane looked uncertain, head turning to look at John with one eye, then the other.
"His hearts burns true," he muttered. "Perhaps..." He ruffled his feathers up, then smoothed them, decision made. "Lift thine right arm. And hold ye still, no matter what passes."
Confused, John complied, and the raven hopped up with a flap of heavy wings. Again he cocked his head at the wound, then his head darted forward and back quickly. John gasped. The raven twisted its head and flung something metallic on the ground. A broken ring of chainmail. Another deep stab, and a second joined the first. John groaned, sweat standing on his brow, arm trembling. The wound ran afresh with blood. The bird hopped to his leg.
"Ye haf a better chance of getting there, without those poisoning your wound. Ye mote go now to Westmoreland."
John looked at the raven upon his knee. "Westmoreland? But 'tis a goodly journey - who is't can help me?"
T'other flapped. "There's none but the Witch of the Westmoreland can make thee hale and sound."
John bowed his head in thankfulness. His hand wavered up to make the sign of the cross, then dropped. No prayer could help him. He was beyond redemption. He had always been. He nodded instead to his two strange interlocutors.
"I thank ye."
"N'thanken us naught," muttered Tane, embarrassed. "It may be that the Witch will naught help."
"And ye mote travel the way alone, ye ken," cawed T'other. "Tis your geas, and part of the price for help."
John nodded again. "Will thou show me the way?"
Tane cawed a harsh laugh. "Be thou deaf? Alone!"
"But ye be..." John's voice trailed off.
"Beasts?" enquired T'other coldly. "Not we. Messengers, us. We speak for the gods. They see something in you, John, son of Watt. N'will they want ye to die beforetimes."
"Still, ye haf friends true and good. Call them," suggested T'other in a kinder caw.
John looked confused for a moment, then his brow cleared. He put two fingers to his mouth, and whistled sharply. Hoof beats heralded the coming of his destrier, with his hound Leaper bounding ahead to fawn at John's legs. The dog sniffed his shoulder, growled low, then whined, looking at John.
John rubbed his lymer's floppy ears affectionately with his good arm.
"Fret ye naught. 'Twill be better. We mote travel a piece first." He looked again at his bird-friends.
"I thank ye. Again, I thank ye."
"Three thanks pays for all," remarked Tane sagely. "Get ye gone, man. Make haste."
John pulled his shield back to him and slung its strap over his head. He stretched a hand out to his horse, which stepped closer, lowering its great red-maned head.
"Galen. True friend mine," John whispered. "Help me."
He grasped the cheek strap, and as if it understood, his stallion lifted its head, pulling John to his feet. He leaned against Galen, shaking. Leaper whined in sympathy.
John grasped the cantle of his saddle, put his toe in the stirrup and heaved himself upwards. He made it, but leaned forward, vision greyed, wound throbbing. Dangereuse, his goshawk, gave a sharp cry as if to rouse him, and he straightened painfully.
Gathering the reins up, he turned his stallions head to the east.
"Fare you well, corbies. If luck be with me, I may thank you three times three."
