by Cait Dee
* * *
My head jerks up from my chest. I stand slowly, blackthorn staff in hand, cursing myself for having dozed off. But the red wolf is no longer there. Instead, the pale human shape of Cal lies face down on the floor. Blushing, I turn away from his nakedness. As I take a step, I stub my toe on the silver wolf’s paw and bend down to pick it up. I turn it over in my hands and notice that the inside of the cap is hollow. And there’s something inside it.
My fingers reach into the cap and pull out the bloodstone, my whole body quaking with blissful relief.
I’ll never take you off again. I whisper as I thread the bloodstone onto the leather cord and put it around my neck.
Emboldened by my discovery, I open the door a crack. The sun’s pale rays glow in the eastern sky. The black wolf is nowhere in sight. Perhaps the creature has also returned to human form. Now is the time to flee. I grab my leather bag, opening the door wider. My heart is thumping so hard it makes me feel dizzy. It’s a bowshot to the tree cover so I make a dash for it, glancing back to make sure there is nothing following me.
The black wolf appears from behind the shieling. I turn and run, hurling myself into the woods. The beast quickly gains ground and is soon only a few yards away. It must’ve been waiting for me.
A blow from the wolf’s front paw knocks me to the ground. I land heavily on my forearms and quickly roll onto my back to face the monster looming over me. The wolf’s top lip curls back to reveal long, yellow teeth.
I shut my eyes to block out the horror.
But instead of attacking me, the wolf cries out. I open my eyes to see the creature sitting on its haunches, its body twisted in pain. An arrow sails through the air, followed by another, both striking the wolf’s flanks. The beast swings around, wild but confused, pawing at the arrows it can’t reach. It growls, whimpers, then stumbles forwards, hitting the ground with glazed eyes.
Cal appears fully dressed now, the bow and quiver slung over his shoulder.
‘Elspet — run!’
THE BLACK CASTLE
Cal is beside me now, dragging me to my feet.
‘Is it dead?’ I ask him.
He shakes his head. ‘We need to move. Go!’
He starts to run, darting between trees at a breathtaking speed. I stumble after him, scarcely able to keep up. My legs are still shaking and the bare winter branches shred my face and arms.
‘Hurry!’ Cal cries over his shoulder.
After a while I can run no more and collapse against the trunk of a bourtree. He grabs my arm and drags me along with him.
It’s only when I clutch my right side and double over in pain that he stops. He looks around and sniffs the air. ‘A moment, that’s all,’ he warns. We sit on a lichen-covered rock and he passes me a flask. I gulp down water until he tears it away.
‘It’ll make you ill,’ he says. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and watch him drink. Cal seems to have grown a foot overnight. His body seems more muscular, sinewy. No more is he the pale boy terrified of his own shadow. In the cold, clear light of dawn, the events of last night seem unreal, like an awful dream.
‘How’d you know he’s not dead?’ I ask. ‘Looked dead to me.’
Cal pulls out one of his arrows and shows me the tip, careful not to touch it. ‘Wolf’s bane. It’ll slow him down for a few hours but there wasn’t enough to kill him.’
Wolf’s bane. It must be his name for monkshood.
‘We need to keep moving.’ He stands up too quickly and hits his head on an overhanging tree branch, yelping in pain. ‘Ow! That’s right where you —’
With a twinge of remorse, I remember hitting him with the blackthorn staff. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to. It’s just that you were . . .’
Cal gives me a crooked smile. ‘About to rip your throat out? Don’t worry — there’s not much in there to hurt anyway.’ He knocks the side of his head with his fist and we both laugh. For some strange reason I don’t fear him, even after last night’s attack. If anything, I’m angry with myself for not heeding his warning that first night. If I’d left the shieling when he told me to, none of this would have happened.
‘Let me see?’
He tilts the top of his head towards me. I part his hair gently with my fingertips and find a deep cut in his scalp, at the back of his crown. The wound is still weeping slightly. Splashing some water from the flask onto it, I wash away some of the caked blood. Cal grits his teeth.
‘It’s not so bad,’ I reassure him. ‘I’ll keep a lookout for some curl-doddy or water betony to staunch the bleeding. That’s the best I can do for now.’
‘You know herb lore?’
I shrug. ‘A little.’
‘I thank you, Elspet,’ he says formally.
This farce has gone on long enough. ‘It’s Iona. My name, I mean.’
He looks at me with eyes narrowed, then a small smile dances on his lips. ‘And your father — not lost in the woods, I gather?’
‘It wasn’t a lie, exactly. He disappeared when I was a wean. Mayhap he is still wandering about in the woods somewhere.’
He grins, then appears to consider this new information. ‘Iona is St Columba’s isle. I’m named for him, you know. So we have that in common.’
Despite myself I laugh at him. ‘Oh aye, you’re a saintly soul. I can already tell that about you.’
Even though I said the words in jest, his face instantly lights up. I can’t help but pity him, imagining that Rabbie had few kind words for his son.
‘How far are we from the shieling?’ I ask him.
Cal frowns. ‘A few miles. Not nearly far enough.’
‘Is this the way to Dunshee? I’m headed for Edinburgh.’
‘Aye, but we’ll not make it to Dunshee by nightfall. We need to find shelter while the weather holds. Once we’re safe I’ll explain everything.’
I nod. ‘And I suppose it’s only fair that I do the same.’
He cocks his head. ‘I should like to hear what really happened to you, Iona. But now we must press on. Are you ready?’
‘Ready.’
He gives me another crooked smile. He’s not handsome like Dalziel. His teeth are uneven, his ginger cowlick hangs in his eyes, and his pallid skin is blighted by freckles. But he has an easy way about him now that’s quite unlike his manner in the shieling. It’s as though he was always terrified someone would find out his darkest secret, and because I’ve seen that other side of him, he can be at ease around me.
For a long time we walk in silence. Even though we don’t speak, there’s nothing uncomfortable about it; not like the time I spent with Dalziel on the way to the ford, when every moment between us seemed charged by the words that neither of us would say.
After the fear and chaos of the night just passed, I walk as if entranced; my body takes over the repetitive task of moving. It’s surprisingly restful, pacing through the woods with Cal. I enjoy watching him. I’ve never seen anybody walk so fluidly. Unlike me, not once does he stumble or stagger, even though he barely looks at the ground. He moves through the trees like a wild animal.
When he stops suddenly I nearly run into the back of him. I’m about to say something but he puts his finger to his lips. I follow his gaze to a dense patch of bracken to the right of us. Has Rabbie caught up with us already? Surely the low fern cover would not hide that great otherworldly beast.
Something has set Cal on edge. He stands perfectly still, his whole body alert, eyes fixed on a target. I peer into the bracken but can’t see so much as a frond waving in the breeze.
He takes an arrow and nocks it in his bow with a movement so graceful it’s as though the bow is an extension of his arm. Then he looses the arrow into the ferns. He runs after it and emerges holding a white hare by the scruff of its neck. The animal is wounded in the hind leg but still very much alive. It struggles against his grasp. Cal puts his hand around its throat, about to snap its neck, but it kicks him hard and he drops it with a cry. Ignoring the arrow in its leg,
the hare bounds away.
‘Curse it! Can’t have got far.’ Cal looks ready to give chase but I grab his sleeve.
‘Leave it be,’ I say. I’m uncomfortable about Cal killing it. Grizel always said that white hares should never be harmed, as they were the moon goddess come down to earth in disguise.
Cal looks ready to argue.
‘We can fish for trout or salmon,’ I suggest.
‘Fish!’ He snorts in disgust. ‘Not big and juicy like that hare.’ He stomps off in a sulk.
Before long we come to a burn. I slide off my boots and stockings and dip my swollen feet into the chilly water. The cold takes my breath away.
Mugwort grows in abundance on the banks. I pull two sprigs and put one into each of my boots, then hand some to Cal.
‘What’s it for?’ he says, sniffing it.
‘Not for eating, you dafty! Put it in your boots. Stops your feet getting tired.’
‘Too late for that,’ he says. He fills his flask from the burn, takes a long swig of water and then passes it to me. The icy water makes my teeth ache.
I stand and wade in up to my ankles to soothe my blisters. One of my toenails is coming off and I bend down to study it.
‘Spitted hare would be nice right about now,’ Cal says. ‘Or hare stew. I’d even settle for some hare broth.’
‘You ought to shoot straighter next time,’ I say mildly.
‘Why’d you tell me to let it go?’
I can’t believe he’s still complaining about it. ‘My aunt always said you should never eat hare meat.’
‘Witches’ animals,’ he mutters.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Skin turners, like Rabbie and me. Witches can change too, but they turn into hares and cats. Or, if it’s not the witch herself, it’s a puckerel. Witches send out puckerels to do their evil bidding. Wish I’d snapped that hare’s neck. The only good witch is a dead witch.’
‘You think just because you’re a skin turner you know all about witches?’ I snap. ‘You don’t know anything!’
Cal looks surprised by my outburst, but then a slow smile creeps across his lips. ‘Ah, now I understand. It makes perfect sense. I’m such a fool I didn’t see it afore!’ He laughs, lying back on the bank to warm himself in the pale winter sun. He chews on a reed and regards me with a smirk.
Eventually my curiosity gets the better of me. ‘Understand what?’
‘The reason you were fleeing through the woods. You’re a witch.’
My face flushes with anger and shame and I can feel my pulse quickening at my neck.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I knew it must’ve been something bad to bring you to our door. You said yourself you know herb lore. And you don’t seem the least bit surprised about Rabbie and me. I’m not stupid, you know.’
‘You are stupid — a stupid, half-witted . . . wolf!’ I splutter.
I pull on my stockings and boots and stride away, only to hear Cal call after me.
‘You’re going the wrong way, Witch. It’s this way to Edinburgh.’
* * *
Evenfall is soon upon us. We’ve been walking all day; I am tired and hungry, but most of all I’m still angry with Cal. We haven’t spoken for hours. At least, I haven’t spoken to him. He throws the occasional comment over his shoulder, as I walk behind at a distance. ‘Witch,’ he says, ‘do you think you might stop the rain?’ Or, ‘Witch, would you steal some milk from them cows over there? I’m starved.’
Since leaving the burn the woodlands have become dense and the ground uneven and treacherous, so by late afternoon we’ve made our way to the road.
Cal stops suddenly, his head cocked. ‘Horses.’
‘I can’t hear anything,’ I growl at him.
He grabs my arm and drags me with him into the tree cover and then forces me to lie down on the damp earth. Moments later, two horses come thundering past, their cloaked riders unrecognisable.
Once they’ve gone I pick myself up from the ground and brush the mud off my cloak. If I’d been walking along the road alone, I’d not have heard the riders until they were upon me. For all I know it’s the witch hunter, or people in his employ.
Cal plucks a leaf from my tangled hair and grins as he shows it to me. I frown in reply, wanting to stay angry with him.
‘I wonder who they were,’ I say, more to myself than him.
Cal shrugs. ‘Probably the king’s men. We often see them on the road. Always in a rush to get somewhere.’
‘Aye, that’s so. Always in a rush,’ says a deep voice.
I whirl around. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cal drawing an arrow from his quiver.
A tall figure wearing a dark-coloured robe emerges from behind a tree and stands a few feet away, observing us. Over his stooped shoulders he carries a long branch with a skinned rabbit tied to each side.
‘Don’t shoot an old man, I beg you,’ he says, feigning terror. Then he chuckles. In the gloaming I can see he has a heavily lined face, with bulging watery eyes. His long grey hair is tied back at the nape of his neck.
Cal lowers his bow to his side, but he holds the arrow in his hand like a dagger. ‘You live around here?’ he asks.
‘Not too far. A mile or so down the road. I was out checking my traps.’ He nods towards the rabbits. ‘Best to stay out of their way,’ he continues, jerking his head in the direction of the riders. ‘A bonnie young lass like you would be braw sport for men like those.’ He looks at me in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Cal nods. ‘We shall stay off the road from now on.’
‘Better yet you find shelter. There’s a tempest coming.’
As if his words were a prophecy, a clap of thunder booms overhead and fat drops of rain start to beat down. It has been drizzling on and off all day, but dark clouds have been gathering in the last few hours, heralding a stormy night ahead.
‘Soldiers sometimes sweep these woods for vagabonds and highwaymen. You’d do well to find somewhere dry to spend the night. Well, good e’en to you.’ The old man gives a short bow and walks towards the road as Cal and I watch, huddled together under the bare branches of a tree as the rain sets in.
The old man stops and turns back towards us. ‘You’re welcome to shelter with me for the night. It’s not much, but it’s a roof and I’ve enough food for us all. Do you like roasted rabbit?’
‘My favourite!’ Cal slings his bow and picks up my leather bag.
‘Cal, wait,’ I whisper, grabbing his arm. ‘We don’t know anything about him!’
‘Oh, come on, Witch. He’s an old man — what harm could he do? Roasted coneys and a warm fire. What more do you need to know?’
‘It’s just . . . I’ve a funny feeling about him.’
‘Are you coming?’ the old man calls. ‘I’d like to get back before this trail turns to muck and mire.’
‘Do you really want to sleep out here in the pouring rain, with soldiers lurking about?’ Cal asks, clearly annoyed.
‘Nae, but —’
‘Then what?’
It’s not something I can put into words. The bloodstone around my neck feels heavy and I’ve a queasy feeling in my belly.
‘It’s only until the storm passes,’ Cal reasons. ‘We’ll be away at first light.’
The rain is coming down hard now. There seems little point in arguing, as we don’t have any other choice. I nod. Cal grins, then bounds after the old man.
‘We’re pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Hamish, and this is my sister Elspet.’
‘My name is Alasdair Creelman. A pleasure to meet you, Hamish. And lovely Elspet.’ He gives me a rat-toothed smile.
Presently, the outline of a ruined castle comes into view. I’m surprised to see Creelman heading straight for it.
‘What is this place?’ I ask.
‘This must be the Black Castle!’ cries Cal. ‘You mean to say you live here?’
Fingers of mist eddy and swirl about the ramparts, making the castle seem a more eldritch place than I’d ever imagined. I’m about to tell Cal that we’d be better off sleeping out in the open when a bolt of lightning strikes a tree just behind us. We break into a run to catch up with Creelman, who lopes towards the front entrance at an astonishing pace for a man of his years.
‘Have you heard the stories?’ Cal whispers.
‘They say it’s haunted by shades of the dead,’ I say, licking my dry lips. The more time we spend with Creelman, the more discomfited I feel. And now he’s leading us straight into the Black Castle.
Cal grins. ‘If you’re feart, then just stay behind me.’
‘Why don’t you stay behind me?’ I push past Cal and take the lead. The last thing I want is to go first, but he mustn’t think I’m scared or I’ll never hear the end of it.
The heavy iron gates swing open with a creak. Inside is a small courtyard. The stone walls of the castle still bear the scorch marks of the fire all the way up to the battlements, blackened by the inferno that burned corpses too numerous to bury. A whole castle full of dead bodies: men, women and bairns, rich and poor alike. Or so the story goes.
The oaken doors leading to the main entrance are still largely intact, though they appear to be barred shut from the inside. To the left of the courtyard is a narrow doorway but the door is missing. Just inside the threshold is a crusie half full with oil, and a piece of flint. Creelman bends down and lights the lamp. Then he leads the way along a narrow hallway whose lime-washed walls are partly blackened from the fire. Off the hallway are a number of small, empty chambers. As we pass the door of each chamber I hold my breath, waiting for something to burst out from the shadows. But there’s nobody here.
To the right, at the end of the hallway, there’s a large chamber with a monstrous hearth. Creelman stops for a moment. ‘This was once the kitchen,’ he says. ‘Over two hundred souls lived here in the seasons when the earl and his family were in residence. That kitchen produced three hot meals a day for all of them. Can you imagine?’