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  Simon’s mother stepped from the shadows, holding a glass of wine. She beamed at all her sons, together under one roof again, at last.

  “Oh, Simon. There you are,” she said brightly. “Welcome home.”

  Susanna Clarke is the best-selling author of the novel Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, which won the Hugo, Locus, Mythopoeic, and World Fantasy awards. She has also written several short stories, which have appeared in The New York Times, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and on the BBC’s 7th Dimension radio program, as well as in anthologies Starlight (Vols. 1-3); The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror; Black Swan, White Raven; Black Heart, Ivory Bones; and Sandman: The Book of Dreams. Most of these tales have been collected in The Ladies of Grace Adieu and Other Stories. Clarke currently resides in Cambridge with her partner, fellow writer Colin Greenland.

  It’s good to be the king. You’ve got it all—castles, servants, feasts, horses, clothes, jewels, and power. Power most of all. You command armies, your word is law, and everyone kneels and calls you “your majesty.” It’s wonderful.

  Wizards have power too, and if you’re the most powerful sorcerer in the land, someone who can transform a pig into fish with a wave of your hand, well, that’s a pretty darned good place to be as well. So who’s more powerful? The king or a wizard?

  And what if the king of the nation and the most powerful wizard in the realm are one and the same person? Wow, now that’s power. Nobody can stand against you, right?

  Well, before you get too cocky it’s always good to remember that no matter how lofty your position may seem, there are always greater powers out there. Even a wizard lord must bow before the hosts of heaven, and all the powers of a sorcerer king may prove futile against the power of pure pig-headed stubbornness. (And the humble hero of our next tale is very cantankerous and very, very stubborn.) Wizards of the world take warning.

  John Uskglass and the Cumbrian Charcoal Burner

  Susanna Clarke

  This retelling of a popular Northern English folktale is taken from A Child’s History of the Raven King by John Waterbury, Lord Portishead. It bears similarities to other old stories in which a great ruler is outwitted by one of his humblest subjects and, because of this, many scholars have argued that it has no historical basis.

  Many summers ago in a clearing in a wood in Cumbria there lived a Charcoal Burner. He was a very poor man. His clothes were ragged and he was generally sooty and dirty. He had no wife or children, and his only companion was a small pig called Blakeman. Most of the time he stayed in the clearing which contained just two things: an earth-covered stack of smouldering charcoal and a but built of sticks and pieces of turf. But in spite of all this he was a cheerful soul—as before unless crossed in any way.

  One bright summer’s morning a stag ran into the clearing. After the stag came a large pack of hunting dogs, and after the dogs came a crowd of horsemen with bows and arrows. For some moments nothing could be seen but a great confusion of baying dogs, sounding horns and thundering hooves. Then, as quickly as they had come, the huntsmen disappeared among the trees at the far end of the clearing—all but one man.

  The Charcoal Burner looked around. His grass was churned to mud; not a stick of his but remained standing; and his neat stack of charcoal was half-dismantled and fires were bursting forth from it. In a blaze of fury he turned upon the remaining huntsman and began to heap upon the man’s head every insult he had ever heard.

  But the huntsman had problems of his own. The reason that he had not ridden off with the others was that Blakeman was running, this way and that, beneath his horse’s hooves, squealing all the while. Try as he might, the huntsman could not get free of him. The huntsman was very finely dressed in black, with boots of soft black leather and a jewelled harness. He was in fact John Uskglass (otherwise called the Raven King), King of Northern England and parts of Faerie, and the greatest magician that ever lived. But the Charcoal Burner (whose knowledge of events outside the woodland clearing was very imperfect) guessed nothing of this. He only knew that the man would not answer him and this infuriated him more than ever. “Say something!” he cried.

  A stream ran through the clearing. John Uskglass glanced at it, then at Blakeman running about beneath his horse’s hooves. He flung out a hand and Blakeman was transformed into a salmon. The salmon leapt through the air into the brook and swam away. Then John Uskglass rode off.

  The Charcoal Burner stared after him. “Well, now what am I going to do?” he said.

  He extinguished the fires in the clearing and he repaired the stack of charcoal as best he could. But a stack of charcoal that has been trampled over by hounds and horses cannot be made to look the same as one that has never received such injuries, and it hurt the Charcoal Burner’s eyes to look at such a botched, broken thing.

  He went down to Furness Abbey to ask the monks to give him some supper because his own supper had been trodden into the dirt. When he reached the Abbey he inquired for the Almoner whose task it is to give food and clothes to the poor. The Almoner greeted him in a kindly manner and gave him a beautiful round cheese and a warm blanket and asked what had happened to make his face so long and sad.

  So the Charcoal Burner told him; but the Charcoal Burner was not much practised in the art of giving clear accounts of complicated events. For example he spoke at great length about the huntsman who had got left behind, but he made no mention of the man’s fine clothes or the jewelled rings on his fingers, so the Almoner had no suspicion that it might be the King. In fact the Charcoal Burner called him “a black man” so that the Almoner imagined he meant a dirty man—just such another one as himself.

  The Almoner was all sympathy. “So poor Blakeman is a salmon now, is he?” he said. “If I were you, I would go and have a word with Saint Kentigern. I am sure he will help you. He knows all about salmon.”

  “Saint Kentigern, you say? And where will I find such a useful person?” asked the Charcoal Burner eagerly.

  “He has a church in Grizedale. That is the road over there.”

  So the Charcoal Burner walked to Grizedale, and when he came to the church he went inside and banged on the walls and bawled out Saint Kentigern’s name, until Saint Kentigern looked out of Heaven and asked what the matter was.

  Immediately the Charcoal Burner began a long indignant speech describing the injuries that had been done to him, and in particular the part played by the solitary huntsman.

  “Well,” said Saint Kentigern, cheerfully. “Let me see what I can do. Saints, such as me, ought always to listen attentively to the prayers of poor, dirty, ragged men, such as you. No matter how offensively those prayers are phrased. You are our special care.”

  “I am though?” said the Charcoal Burner, who was rather flattered to hear this.

  Then Saint Kentigern reached down from Heaven, put his hand into the church font and pulled out a salmon. He shook the salmon a little and the next moment there was Blakeman, as dirty and clever as ever.

  The Charcoal Burner laughed and clapped his hands. He tried to embrace Blakeman but Blakeman just ran about, squealing, with his customary energy.

  “There,” said Saint Kentigern, looking down on this pleasant scene with some delight. “I am glad I was able to answer your prayer.

  “Oh, but you have not!” declared the Charcoal Burner. “You must punish my wicked enemy!”

  Then Saint Kentigern frowned a little and explained how one ought to forgive one’s enemies. But the Charcoal Burner had never practised Christian forgiveness before and he was not in a mood to begin now. “Let Blencathra fall on his head!” he cried with his eyes ablaze and his fists held high. (Blencathra is a high hill some miles to the north of Grizedale.)

  “Well, no,” said Saint Kentigern diplomatically. “I really cannot do that. But I think you said this man was a hunter? Perhaps the loss of a day’s sport will teach him to treat his neighbours with more respect.”

  The moment that Saint Kentigern said these words John Uskglass (w
ho was still hunting), tumbled down from his horse and into a cleft in some rocks. He tried to climb out but found that he was held there by some mysterious power. He tried to do some magic to counter it, but the magic did not work. The rocks and earth of England loved John Uskglass well. They would always wish to help him if they could, but this power—whatever it was—was something they respected even more.

  He remained in the cleft all day and all night, until he was thoroughly cold, wet and miserable. At dawn the unknown power suddenly released him—why, he could not tell. He climbed out, found his horse and rode back to his castle at Carlisle.

  “Where have you been?” asked William of Lanchester. “We expected you yesterday.”

  Now John Uskglass did not want any one to know that there might be a magician in England more powerful than himself. So he thought for a moment. “France,” he said.

  “France!” William of Lanchester looked surprised. “And did you see the King? What did he say? Are they planning new wars?”

  John Uskglass gave some vague, mystical and magician-like reply. Then he went up to his room and sat down upon the floor by his silver dish of water. Then he spoke to Persons of Great Importance (such as the West Wind or the Stars) and asked them to tell him who had caused him to be thrown into the cleft. Into his dish came a vision of the Charcoal Burner.

  John Uskglass called for his horse and his dogs, and he rode to the clearing in the wood.

  Meanwhile the Charcoal Burner was toasting some of the cheese the Almoner had given him. Then he went to look for Blakeman, because there were few things in the world that Blakeman liked as much as toasted cheese.

  While he was gone John Uskglass arrived with his dogs. He looked around at the clearing for some clue as to what had happened. He wondered why a great and dangerous magician would chose to live in a wood and earn his living as a charcoal burner. His eye fell upon the toasted cheese.

  Now toasted cheese is a temptation few men can resist, be they charcoal burners or kings. John Uskglass reasoned thus: all of Cumbria belonged to him—therefore this wood belonged to him—therefore this toasted cheese belonged to him. So he sat down and ate it, allowing his dogs to lick his fingers when he was done.

  At that moment the Charcoal Burner returned. He stared at John Uskglass and at the empty green leaves where his toasted cheese had been. “You!” he cried. “It is you! You ate my dinner!” He took hold of John Uskglass and shook him hard. “Why? Why do you these things?”

  John Uskglass said not a word. (He felt himself to be at something of a disadvantage.) He shook himself free from the Charcoal Burner’s grasp, mounted upon his horse and rode out of the clearing.

  The Charcoal Burner went down to Furness Abbey again. “That wicked man came back and ate my toasted cheese!” he told the Almoner.

  The Almoner shook his head sadly at the sinfulness of the world. “Have some more cheese,” he offered. “And perhaps some bread to go with it?”

  “Which saint is it that looks after cheeses?” demanded the Charcoal Burner.

  The Almoner thought for a moment. “That would be Saint Bridget,” he said.

  “And where will I find her ladyship?” asked the Charcoal Burner, eagerly.

  “She has a church at Beckermet,” replied the Almoner, and he pointed the way the Charcoal Burner ought to take.

  So the Charcoal Burner walked to Beckermet and when he got to the church he banged the altar plates together and roared and made a great deal of noise until Saint Bridget looked anxiously out of Heaven and asked if there was any thing she could do for him.

  The Charcoal Burner gave a long description of the injuries his silent enemy had done him.

  Saint Bridget said she was sorry to hear it. “But I do not think I am the proper person to help you. I look after milkmaids and dairymen. I encourage the butter to come and the cheeses to ripen. I have nothing to do with cheese that has been eaten by the wrong person. Saint Nicholas looks after thieves and stolen property. Or there is Saint Alexander of Comana who loves Charcoal Burners. Perhaps,” she added hopefully, “you would like to pray to one of them?”

  The Charcoal Burner declined to take an interest in the persons she mentioned. “Poor, ragged, dirty men like me are your special care!” he insisted. “Do a miracle!”

  “But perhaps,” said Saint Bridget, “this man does not mean to offend you by his silence. Have you considered that he may be mute?”

  “Oh, no! I saw him speak to his dogs. They wagged their tails in delight to hear his voice. Saint, do your work! Let Blencathra fall on his head!”

  Saint Bridget sighed. “No, no, we cannot do that; but certainly he is wrong to steal your dinner. Perhaps it might be as well to teach him a lesson. Just a small one.”

  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 d
ay 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 cars 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.