At that moment John Uskglass and his court were preparing to go hunting. A cow wandered into the stable-yard. It ambled up to where John Uskglass stood by his horse and began to preach him a sermon in Latin on the wickedness of stealing. Then his horse turned its head and told him solemnly that it quite agreed with the cow and that he should pay good attention to what the cow said.
All the courtiers and the servants in the stable-yard fell silent and stared at the scene. Nothing like this had ever happened before.
"This is magic!" declared William of Lanchester. "But who would dare . . .?"
"I did it myself," said John Uskglass quickly.
"Really?" said William. "Why?"
There was a pause. "To help me contemplate my sins and errors," said John Uskglass at last, "as a Christian should from time to time."
"But stealing is not a sin of yours! So why . . .?"
"Good God, William!" cried John Uskglass. "Must you ask so many questions? I shall not hunt today!"
He hurried away to the rose garden to escape the horse and the cow. But the roses turned their red-and-white faces towards him and spoke at length about his duty to the poor; and some of the more ill-natured flowers hissed, "Thief! Thief!" He shut his eyes and put his fingers in his ears, but his dogs came and found him and pushed their noses in his face and told him how very, very disappointed they were in him. So he went and hid in a bare little room at the top of the castle. But all that day the stones of the walls loudly debated the various passages in the Bible that condemn stealing.
John Uskglass had no need to inquire who had done this (the cow, horse, dogs, stones and roses had all made particular mention of toasted cheese); and he was determined to discover who this strange magician was and what he wanted. He decided to employ that most magical of all creatures - the raven. An hour later a thousand or so ravens were despatched in a flock so dense that it was as if a black mountain were flying through the summer sky. When they arrived at the Charcoal Burner's clearing, they filled every part of it with a tumult of black wings. The leaves were swept from the trees, and the Charcoal Burner and Blakeman were knocked to the ground and battered about. The ravens searched the Charcoal Burner's memories and dreams for evidence of magic. Just to be on the safe side, they searched Blakeman's memories and dreams too. The ravens looked to see what man and pig had thought when they were still in their mothers' wombs; and they looked to see what both would do when finally they came to Heaven. They found not a scrap of magic anywhere.
When they were gone John Uskglass walked into the clearing with his arms folded, frowning. He was deeply disappointed at the ravens' failure.
The Charcoal Burner got slowly up from the ground and looked around in amazement. If a fire had ravaged the wood, the destruction could scarcely have been more complete. The branches were torn from the trees and a thick, black layer of raven feathers lay over everything. In a sort of ecstasy of indignation, he cried, "Tell me why you persecute me!"
But John Uskglass said not a word.
"I will make Blencathra fall on your head! I will do it! You know I can!" He jabbed his dirty finger in John Uskglass's face. "You — know — I — can!"
The next day the Charcoal Burner appeared at Furness Abbey before the sun was up. He found the Almoner, who was on his way to Prime. "He came back and shattered my wood," he told him. "He made it black and ugly!"
"What a terrible man!" said the Almoner, sympathetically.
"What saint is in charge of ravens?" demanded the Charcoal Burner.
"Ravens?" said the Almoner. "None that I know of." He thought for a moment. "Saint Oswald had a pet raven of which he was extremely fond."
"And where would I find his saintliness?"
"He has a new church at Grasmere."
So the Charcoal Burner walked to Grasmere and when he got there he shouted and banged on the walls with a candlestick.
Saint Oswald put his head out of Heaven and cried, "Do you have to shout so loud? I am not deaf! What do you want? And put down that candlestick! It was expensive!" During their holy and blessed lives Saint Kentigern and Saint Bridget had been a monk and a nun respectively; they were full of mild, saintly patience. But Saint Oswald had been a king and a soldier, and he was a very different sort of person.
"The Almoner at Furness Abbey says you like ravens," explained the Charcoal Burner.
" 'Like' is putting it a little strong," said Saint Oswald. "There was a bird in the seventh century that used to perch on my shoulder. It pecked my ears and made them bleed."
The Charcoal Burner described how he was persecuted by the silent man.
"Well, perhaps he has reason for behaving as he does?" said Saint Oswald, sarcastically. "Have you, for example, made great big dents in his expensive candlesticks?"
The Charcoal Burner indignantly denied ever having hurt the silent man.
"Hmm," said Saint Oswald, thoughtfully. "Only kings can hunt deer, you know."
The Charcoal Burner looked blank.
"Let us see," said Saint Oswald. "A man in black clothes, with powerful magic and ravens at his command, and the hunting rights of a king. This suggests nothing to you? No apparently it does not. Well, it so happens that I think I know the person you mean. He is indeed very arrogant and perhaps the time has come to humble him a little. If I understand you aright, you are angry because he does not speak to you?"
"Yes."
"Well then, I believe I shall loosen his tongue a little."
"What sort of punishment is that?" asked the Charcoal Burner. "I want you to make Blencathra fall on his head!"
Saint Oswald made a sound of irritation. "What do you know of it?" he said. "Believe me, I am a far better judge than you of how to hurt this man!"
As Saint Oswald spoke John Uskglass began to talk in a rapid and rather excited manner. This was unusual but did not at first seem sinister. All his courtiers and servants listened politely. But minutes went by - and then hours??????? - and he did not stop talking. He talked through dinner; he talked through mass; he talked through the night. He made prophesies, recited Bible passages, told the histories of various fairy kingdoms, gave recipes for pies. He gave away political secrets, magical secrets, infernal secrets, Divine secrets and scandalous secrets - as a result of which the Kingdom of Northern England was thrown into various political and theological crises. Thomas of Dundale and William of Lanchester begged and threatened and pleaded, but nothing they said could make the King stop talking. Eventually they were obliged to lock him in the little room at the top of the castle so that no one else could hear him. Then, since it was inconceivable that a king should talk without someone listening, they were obliged to stay with him, day after day. After exactly three days he fell silent.
Two days later he rode into the Charcoal Burner's clearing. He looked so pale and worn that the Charcoal Burner was in high hopes that Saint Oswald might have relented and pushed Blencathra on his head.
"What is it that you want from me?" asked John Uskglass, warily.
"Ha!" said the Charcoal Burner with triumphant looks. "Ask my pardon for turning poor Blakeman into a fish!"
A long silence.
Then with gritted teeth, John Uskglass asked the Charcoal Burner's pardon. "Is there any thing else you want?" he asked.
"Repair all the hurts you did me!"
Immediately the Charcoal Burner's stack and hut reappeared just as they had always been; the trees were made whole again; fresh, green leaves covered their branches; and a sweet lawn of soft grass spread over the clearing.
"Any thing else?"
The Charcoal Burner closed his eyes and strained to summon up an image of unthinkable wealth. "Another pig!" he declared.
John Uskglass was beginning to suspect that he had made a miscalculation somewhere - though he could not for his life tell where it was. Nevertheless he felt confident enough to say, "I will grant you a pig - if you promise that you will tell no one who gave it to you or why."
"How can I?" said th
e Charcoal Burner. "I do not know who you are. Why?" he said, narrowing his eyes. "Who are you?"
"No one," said John Uskglass, quickly.
Another pig appeared, the very twin of Blakeman, and while the Charcoal Burner was exclaiming over his good fortune, John Uskglass got on his horse and rode away in a condition of the most complete mystification.
Shortly after that he returned to his capital city of Newcastle. In the next fifty or sixty years his lords and servants often reminded him of the excellent hunting to be had in Cumbria, but he was careful never to go there again until he was sure the Charcoal Burner was dead.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Susanna Clarke is the author of the international bestseller Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell. It was published in over thirty countries, and shortlisted for the Whitbread First Novel Award and the Guardian First Book Award. It won the British Book Awards Newcomer of the Year, the Hugo Award and the World Fantasy Award in 2005. Susanna Clarke lives in Cambridge.
A NOTE ON THE ILLUSTRATOR
Charles Vess's graphic narrative work has appeared in, among other publications, Spiderman, The Sandman, The Books of Magic and his own self-published The Book of Ballads and Sagas and has earned him two Will Eisner Comic Industry awards. In 1999 he received the World Fantasy Award for Best Artist for his illustrations for Stardust (a collaboration with Neil Gaiman). He lives in the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia. For more information about the art of Charles Vess please visit his website at www.greenmanpress.com.
A NOTE ON THE TYPE
The text of this book is set in Adobe Caslon, named after the English punch-cutter and type founder William Caslon I (1692-1766). Caslon's rather old-fashioned types were modelled on seventeenth-century Dutch designs, but found wide acceptance throughout the English-speaking world for much of the eighteenth century until being replaced by newer types toward the end of the century. Used in 1776 to print the Declaration of Independence, they were revived in the nineteenth century, and have been popular ever since, particularly among fine printers. There are several digital versions, of which Carol Twombly's Adobe Caslon is one.
Susanna Clarke, The Ladies of Grace Adieu and Other Stories
(Series: # )
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