by Cait Dee
In a trick of light and shadow, the colours of the stone appear to move, swirling together in endless patterns and shapes. The last thing I remember is the hole in the bloodstone growing larger and larger, as if it would suck me into it.
* * *
At birdsong I wake to sound of Rabbie clearing his throat outside. I quickly rise, brush down my skirt and rake my fingers through the sparrow’s nest my hair has become.
Cal stands over the hearth fire, stoking it with dry wood. He glares at me. ‘Should’ve left when I told you,’ he says.
I am frowning at him, trying to think of a clever retort, when Rabbie bangs into the shieling.
‘Well! Looks like a braw morn, now the storm’s passed. Did you sleep well?’
I nod and murmur a few words of thanks. Casting my gaze about, I see Gregor’s bag nearby and reach over to grab it. The sooner I get going, the better.
Underneath the bag there’s something on the floor and I stoop to pick it up. A length of leather cord, the ends twisted from an untied knot.
My hand flies to my neck.
The bloodstone is gone.
THE TALE OF THE TWO WOLVES
‘Missing, you say?’ Rabbie strokes the grey-streaked black wool that covers his chin. Cal drops onto all fours to help me scour the floor. Not missing — stolen. I bite my tongue until I taste blood. Now I must force myself to go through this pretence of searching for the stone. I need to work out what Rabbie’s done with it. The shieling is small and there are only a few places where he could have hidden it.
‘Never mind, lass. As you said, it was just an old stone.’ Rabbie rests his chin on the silver cap of his cane and gives me an oily smile.
‘Aye, but it’s all I had left of my poor dead mother!’ I bring my knuckle to my mouth and pretend to muffle a sob.
Cal looks at me through narrowed eyes, his arms folded. So, this was what he was trying to warn me about last night. Not only is Rabbie a bully, he’s a thief, too. I’d hoped to be on my way by now, but now I’m stuck here until I find the bloodstone.
We break our fast in silence around the small wooden table. After we’ve eaten, Rabbie offers to walk with me to the place where I last saw my father. For a moment I stare at him blankly until I recall the tale I told last night.
‘Not until I find my stone,’ I say, trying to stop my voice from shaking.
‘Indeed? Well.’ He slaps his son on the shoulder with such force that I wince at the blow. ‘Cal and me, we’d be delighted to have your company a wee while longer. The lad needs a young body to talk to. Tired of his old man’s blethering, aren’t you?’
I look up at Cal’s pinched face. For a moment my heart goes out to him, reminded of the way Dougal used to torment Dalziel.
Rabbie accepts my offer to perform a few chores in return for my board. It’s nothing like the backbreaking work that Gregor had me do at the farmhouse while he sat idle. Besides, it gives me a chance to search the shieling for the bloodstone. As I work, I ask Rabbie about the road to Edinburgh. He tells me to make for the closest town, Dunshee, about a day and a half’s walk following the river further south. I’ve heard of it.
‘My aunt once told me about the Black Castle. It’s near Dunshee, is it not?’
Rabbie nods, and grins as he recounts the tale. ‘Many years ago, the pestilence descended upon the castle, taking the lives of all who dwelled there. Nobody dared enter its gates to retrieve the bodies. The earl whose castle it was vowed never to return and the townspeople set fire to it. And so the castle became a funeral pyre. It’s only bogles and shades of the dead that now call the Black Castle home.’
* * *
It’s late afternoon and I’m despairing. Another day almost gone, and another night ahead with this brute and his strange, silent son. By noontide I’d turned the shieling upside down but without any luck in finding the bloodstone. The only place I haven’t looked is a large wooden chest at the back of the hut, but it’s locked up tight. I tried to force the lid when Rabbie wandered outside for a time, but it wouldn’t budge. I’m sure he must have hidden the stone in there.
The cold wind rustles the dead winter leaves, reminding me that the witch finder is out there in the woods somewhere, searching for me. To distract myself from my predicament, I head outside to look for some mushrooms or herbs for the cooking pot. The kailyard is poorly tended and overgrown with briars and bramble. I manage to find some wood sorrel and scraggly dandelion leaves, recalling with sad longing my aunt’s deep affinity with the green world. Grizel could grow just about anything in her garden. It was why her healing work was so powerful. She said you could always tell what ails a body simply by looking at the plants growing around their home. I wonder what she would make of all the monkshood around here. It’s a deadly poison; in Heatherbrae, we used it to bait for wolves.
And what would my aunt say to me now? It’s been only a few days since I fled Heatherbrae and already the bloodstone is lost. A hot wave of shame fills my insides. Forgive me, Grizel. I’ll get it back, I promise you. No matter what it takes.
It’s time to get supper started. With a heavy heart I head back to the shieling carrying my meagre harvest, but stop short when I hear raised voices coming from inside. I press my ear to the door.
‘ — let her go? She’s not done anything!’ Cal’s shrill voice pierces the air.
‘She lied to me,’ Rabbie replies. ‘After I let her in from the cold and broke bread with her. D’you really believe that tale about her father?’
‘What does it matter? Just give her back the stone and —’
Flesh strikes flesh. ‘That’s for your insolence. And that —’ another blow ‘— is for being a useless —’
I burst into the shieling. Cal is cowering on the floor.
‘Stop it!’ I shout at Rabbie. ‘Get away from him.’
Cal scrambles to his feet. ‘I’m fine,’ he assures me. ‘Go wait outside.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I say to him. I turn to Rabbie. ‘Where is it?’ I shout. ‘I know you stole my stone!’
The big man cups his hand to his ear. ‘Beg pardon? Not sure I heard you right. Accuse a man of thievery in his own cot-house, do you?’
Rabbie stands square to me, raising himself to his full height. I can feel my legs wavering. If he beats his own son, then I’ve no notion what he might do to a stranger. His sudden changes of mood are frightening to behold, but there’s no going back now. I’ll not give up the bloodstone without a fight.
‘All I know is I had the stone when I went to sleep, and now it’s gone. And you seemed awfully interested in it yestere’en . . .’
‘I’ve no glimmering of what happened to your bauble. But did I not see you wrestling with the lock on my wooden chest? Be grateful I don’t take you for a thief!’
My ears burn. ‘I’m no thief! I was only —’
‘— searching for your hagstone?’ he sneers.
There’s nothing else for it. I’m at his mercy, and he knows it. Through gritted teeth, I say, ‘Please, Mr Rabbie. Please. Just give me back the stone and I’ll be on my way. I’ll not burden you any longer.’
Rabbie sits on his chair and stretches out his bad leg, twirling his walking staff in his large hands. ‘Burden me? Why, you’re no burden! To the contrary, you’re a delightful diversion from our dreary lives — is she not, Cal? And we’re all friends here, nae?’ He gives a forced laugh, attempting to lighten the mood. ‘As I say, it’s rare we see a traveller in winter and never one as bonnie as you, wee Elspet.’
Then he turns to Cal. ‘Go get my flask of cordial. Pour a cup for our guest. It’s time to show wee Elspet what it is we keep in that wooden chest.’
For a moment Cal looks like he’s about to swoon. He stands so still that I can sense he’s holding his breath. And it’s not just him: it feels as though all the air has been sucked out of the shieling.
‘Cal!’ Rabbie says in a way that jolts the lad into action.
He walks to the crate the Al
derwoods use as a spence, pulls out an earthenware flask and places it on the table in front of Rabbie. The man’s large hands uncork it and pour some dark red liquid into a cup. He hands the cup to me.
Reluctantly I take a sniff. ‘Elderberry?’
Rabbie nods.
‘Will you not join me?’ I ask him.
He shakes his head. ‘Wine’s a woman’s drink. Would that there was an alehouse nearby.’ He smiles again, but this time his eyes don’t wrinkle.
I raise the glass to my lips. Rabbie’s golden eyes glitter in the lamplight. A sip confirms it’s elderberry wine; but it has an odd taste, a muddiness that undermines the sweetness of the berries.
‘It’s good,’ I say, resolving not to drink any more.
‘You’ll excuse us for a moment.’
Cal and Rabbie retreat to the back of the shieling. Rabbie produces a key on twine around his neck and unlocks the wooden chest. He throws open the lid and the two of them begin rummaging through it. I stand, craning my neck to see what’s inside. But then I gasp as Rabbie turns around. A wolf mask covers his face. Around his head and shoulders are draped the skin of a large black wolf.
Moments later Cal turns, wearing the skin of a red wolf and a mask just like Rabbie’s.
‘You’re guisers!’ I cry. Guisers are travelling players who journey from village to village. They’d come to Heatherbrae once a year, usually around Hogmanay, wassailing at the door of each house and demanding payment in bread or posset.
‘Do you know the tale of the two wolves, Elspet?’ says Rabbie in a gravelly voice.
I shake my head, but it’s a lie. I’ve heard the tale many times but never seen it played out before. I don’t understand why they’d go to the trouble of dressing up and performing it just for me.
Rabbie begins the tale.
One day two wolves were strolling through the wildwood when they came upon a farm at the edge of the tree line. The farmer could not be seen anywhere, so they headed straight for the henhouse. Inside were seven fat fowls.
Black Wolf wanted to barge through the door and eat his fill, but Red Wolf had a cunning plan.
‘Dear Black Wolf, why eat them now? There’s plenty of game in the wildwood. Let us wait until winter, when food is scarce.’
So the two wolves went back to their den. Before long, Red Wolf announced he had to visit his mother, who was ailing.
‘Why, I’ll join you, old friend,’ said Black Wolf.
‘Nae,’ said Red Wolf. ‘Mother is feart of strangers. I must go alone. I’ll return on the morrow.’ And so he left . . .
Cal slinks off to the back corner of the shieling and pretends to slaughter a couple of hens and eat them. He’s a natural performer and in different circumstances I’d enjoy watching him. But now I’m too close to the Alderwoods, almost part of the story, and it feels like a dangerous place to be. I pretend to take a sip of the wine and again smell the murkiness masked by the elderberries. My hands are clammy, but I sit back in my chair and smile, so Rabbie will think I’m enjoying the performance.
… and he returned the next day looking pleased with himself.
The weather grew colder and the days shorter. Before long, Red Wolf again announced that he would need to visit his sickly mother. He disappeared overnight and returned the next day looking satisfied.
The weather turned ill and poor Black Wolf was so lean you could see his bones, but Red Wolf remained in strapping good health. He went to visit his mother once more and came back to the den. He was plump and his red fur had an oily sheen.
By now Black Wolf had grown suspicious. While Red Wolf was away, Black Wolf sought out his old friend Barn Owl, who always gave wise counsel. This time, when Red Wolf returned, Black Wolf said to him, ‘Friend, I’ll abide this hunger no longer. We must go to the farm right away and feast in that henhouse.’
Reluctantly Red Wolf agreed. Of course, when they got there, the hens were all gone!
‘You did this!’ Red Wolf pointed an accusing paw at Black Wolf. ‘You raided the henhouse when I was visiting Mother. I knew I couldn’t trust you!’
There’s a pause and I can tell Rabbie’s waiting for my reaction. I laugh hard and knock over my cup of wine. A dark red puddle seeps into the earthen floor. Rabbie hesitates for just a moment, then carries on as though nothing’s happened.
Black Wolf pulls out a feather given to him by Barn Owl, who was also a warlock. He blows on it, and before long a strange thing starts to happen to Red Wolf.
Cal paws at his mouth, and pulls out a large white feather.
Rabbie’s eyes are trained on me, glinting through the slits in the mask. I give him a smile. Very clever.
Cal starts to cough up more feathers. At first only a few, but then more and more. Before long, vast amounts of white plumage come pouring from his mouth, quickly filling the small dwelling. Soft, downy feathers swirl around in front of me and I try to wave them away so I don’t inhale them. It’s just some guiser’s trick, but my heart beats faster as the air becomes thick with them. Cal and Rabbie have almost disappeared from view in the feathery snowstorm.
Rabbie pulls something out from underneath the wolfskin and swings it over his head. It makes a humming sound followed by an ear-splitting CRACK, like thunder. All the swirling feathers suddenly fall to the floor. The air now feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm. With horror, I look down and see two beasts peering back at me. One, a giant black wolf. The other, a lean red wolf.
The black wolf snaps at the red wolf, which snarls in reply. The creatures wrestle, rolling around on the floor in a frenzied tangle of red and black fur. My whole body shakes as I edge to the door, hoping to make my escape. But then the black wolf bounds towards me. I throw open the door. Unable to stop, the beast charges through it into the darkness and I quickly slam it shut. Now locked outside, the wolf hurls itself at the door. Although it shudders with each strike, the door is made of oak and remains firm. I’m safe from the black wolf, at least for now. But I’m trapped inside the shieling with the red wolf: the unearthly creature that only moments before was a lad named Cal.
Desperately I scan the room, looking for something to use as a weapon. My eyes fall on Rabbie’s walking staff lying on the floor. I can now see that the silver cap is a wolf’s paw. But I’m not interested in the cap. I run my hands over the gnarled dark wood, immediately recognising it as a branch from the blackthorn tree.
Blackthorn is a powerful ally in repelling dark magic. Old crone of the wildwood, Grizel called it. If she needed to forge a banishing spell, or a spell to reverse a curse, she would call on Blackthorn. And there’s some kind of dark magic behind the Alderwoods’ transformation, that’s plain enough.
I hold the staff in front of me, and say:
Forge I now a spell this night,
Calling Blackthorn’s power to me.
Protect me now with all your might,
O staff of Blackthorn tree!
By this line drawn in the dirt,
Keep yon foul beast at bay,
Let it not attack or hurt,
Before the break of day.
Spare me from the wolf’s assault,
O fearsome Blackthorn tree.
Bring this onslaught to a halt,
As I will, so shall it be!
I repeat the incantation like a chant, my voice getting louder as I draw a line in the earthen floor with the end of the staff between the red wolf and me. I tip the wooden table over and position myself behind it. The red beast paces up and down in front of me, fangs bared savagely, a lather forming at the corners of its mouth. As long as I keep the chant going, it’s unable to cross the line. But I’m trapped, too; now I can’t make it past the wolf to get to the wooden chest.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! The door shudders as the black wolf crashes into it. I look over my shoulder and, with a sickening feeling, see the wood panels start to split.
In the moments I’m distracted by the black wolf, I falter with my chant. The red wolf places
a paw across the line. It snarls and crouches low, readying itself to attack. I raise the walking staff in the air just as the wolf springs towards me. With every ounce of strength I can muster, I bring down the staff on the creature’s head. At the blow, the silver wolf’s paw attached to the staff falls onto the floor with a dull clunk. The red wolf cowers, whimpering; blood flows from a wound on its head. I raise the staff again, intending to spare it no mercy. But it looks at me with gold-flecked eyes before averting its gaze. It rolls onto its side with its belly exposed, the way Gregor’s hound would do after he whipped her. And then I remember that Cal is inside there, somewhere. Slowly, I lower the staff.
The thumping at the door has stopped. I stand still but can’t hear anything moving outside. I open the door just a crack and a dark shape bounds towards me. Screaming, I slam the door shut and then drag the wooden table against it. The black wolf howls and scratches. The red wolf sits up, pricking his ears. I raise the staff over my head again and the smaller beast lies down, placing his head on a front paw, ears back, eyes lowered.
‘Good dog,’ I mutter.
There may only be a few moments of peace and I still need to find the bloodstone. I run to the wooden chest and pull out old, ragged guisers’ costumes. At the very bottom of the chest is a quiver full of arrows and a small bow, but there’s no sign of the stone. I consider taking the bow but I never learned to shoot. The last thing I need is an angry, wounded wolf chasing me.
I continue my search of the shieling, my fingers probing gaps in the unmortared stone, but I find no sign of the bloodstone. In the meantime, the black wolf howls and paces outside. The red wolf lies on the floor, regarding me from the corner of his golden eye. Eventually his eyelids grow heavy and he falls asleep. My cloak is hanging from a hook on the wall and I wrap myself in it, sitting in the corner of the shieling where I can keep an eye on both the door and the red wolf, with the blackthorn staff resting on my knees.