by Ellen Datlow
The old ways always worked for them, so they would continue with them long after others had forgotten their roots.
Adre, adre, am y cynta’, Hwch ddu gwta a gipio’r ola’.
Home, home, on the double, The tailless black sow shall snatch the last.
The elder shouted that, and the children squealed with the giddy delight of feigned terrors. An excuse to run as fast as they could. A better excuse waited at home—a bag of candy—and if you had siblings, you’d best hurry because not all bags were created equal.
Off the children ran, shouting and bumping into each other like pool balls. The adults urged them on, laughing and yelling, “Watch out for the sow,” and, “Last one gone will be eaten!”
When Lance was a child, it hadn’t mattered that he had no siblings, that there was no reason to run to claim the best bag of candy. He’d done it for the thrill, to be part of the excitement, part of the crowd. Now he watched as the children raced down the passage beside the bank, and he crowded in to see them reach the end, where a figure dressed in black flew out, waving his arms, a painted hog’s skull on his head. The children shrieked and squealed as if this didn’t happen—in this exact spot—every year.
Lance couldn’t see the children, but he knew the path the brave ones would take. They’d veer to the playground. Then over to the bushes on the left. Past the massive oak. Finally down the east passage back to the street. All places that hid Hwch Ddu Gwta—another black sow, leaping from behind bushes or jumping from a tree.
Lance tracked their progress by the shouts. Then he looked over to see Seanna watching them, too, a rare smile on her thin face.
He saw that smile, and he hated it worse than her smirks and sneers. That smile said there was more there, something worth saving.
The smile was a lie.
He escaped down Main Street, stopped in an alcove, and studied the bonfire for later, when he’d return to take Seanna’s stone. As he turned, he found bright blue eyes laser-beamed to his, and he gave a start, as if those beams probed right into his thoughts. Which they might have, given who it was.
Rose Walsh might be Seanna’s aunt, but when Lance was little, he’d thought of her as Seanna’s big sister. An easy mistake to make—the families were so close they shared yards, kids running from one house to the next. “Like some kind of commune,” his mother would sniff, and if Lance noticed Seanna at all in those days, it was with envy for that life she had, that family.
Rose was about eighteen, built sturdy like most Walshes, with the kind of chest that magnetized his gaze if he wasn’t careful. He stood in no danger of that now. He could only stare at her eyes, desperate for a sign that she didn’t actually know what he had planned for Seanna.
Rose Walsh had the sight. That’s what they called it in Cainsville, and they said it no differently than they’d say someone had a knack for baking pies or playing piano.
“Too old to run home?” Rose said.
He started at the sound of her voice. Her lips curved in just the faintest smile as she wished him a good Nos Galan Gaeaf. Rose Walsh wasn’t given to smiles, but she had always been kind to him, steady and unflappable, and her expression bore no sign that she’d foreseen his plan.
“Too old to run home?” she repeated.
“A bit.”
“But old enough to join the Mari Lwyd. I bet if you asked, they’d let you go along.” That faint curve of her lips again. “It’s a fine excuse for underage drinking.”
He smiled at that, and at the thought of joining the revelers, but he shook his head, saying, “I’ll wait. Thank you, though,” and then slipped off. He felt the weight of Rose’s gaze following him.
Lance poked around Main Street, scoping out the area for his return. He kept an eye on the dwindling crowds, not wanting to be noted as among the last to leave.
He was walking past the fire when one of the elders fell in beside him. He didn’t know her name. To him, they were just “the elders.” Old people. Gray haired and wrinkle faced. A homogeneous lot of senior citizens.
This one was a woman with long, graying hair. Short and stout, like the teapot in the rhyme. Despite her obvious age, she fell in at a perfect pace with him. He slowed, though, out of respect. Even Seanna treated the elders with respect.
“Rose tells me you might like to join the Mari Lwyd,” the woman said.
Lance shook his head. “Not this year. Thank you.”
“Are you sure? I can make a place for you. I think you’d enjoy it.”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
“Well, then, best run along home. Before Hwch Ddu Gwta comes out to play.”
She patted his back, and he felt the weight of her gaze, too, watching as he headed for the side street.
—
ON THE WALK home, Lance heard the Mari Lwyd making the rounds from house to house. The gray mare.
He heard the chatter and laughter grow louder, and he turned onto his street just as the Mari Lwyd left a house. He saw it, and for one split second, he was a child again, getting his first look.
After his parents thought Lance had gone to bed, he’d snuck out to see the Mari Lwyd. One glimpse, and he’d run home so fast his lungs burned, and he’d lain in bed for hours, reciting multiplication tables, his talisman against the night and its horrors.
He shook his head at his younger self. Sure, it was a spooky sight. A hooded figure wearing a mare’s skull, white garments flowing, an equine specter. But the men and women with the fearsome creature were laughing, halfway to drunk, jostling like kids as they made their way up the steps to the next house with its light on.
One of the men rapped at the door. It opened immediately and someone inside let out a cry of feigned terror. The group shouldered their way inside, where they would tell a story in exchange for a “tipple” of whiskey and then bless the house against the coming winter.
The front windows were open, and through them Lance heard the story start, and his steps slowed. He thought of Rose and the elder and their invitation.
Join the procession of the Mari Lwyd. You don’t need to be the odd boy out. It’s Cainsville, where gargoyles appear and disappear, where a teenage girl can see the future, where the Mari Lwyd bestows her blessings for the winter ahead.
Come and join us.
He wanted to. He desperately wanted to.
Next year.
Tonight he needed to kill Seanna Walsh.
—
SNEAKING FROM THE HOUSE was easy. His parents barely noticed he’d come in. The hardest part was going out his window. That was not difficult in itself—it opened easily. The problem was it was bad luck to exit through a different door than the one you’d entered. He gritted his teeth and went out his window. Then he checked it four times to be sure it was closed.
Lance counted steps to Main Street. Another talisman. Get an even number, and everything would go well. Of course, it was easy to get an even number—just take an extra step if it came up odd—but it was the mindfulness that mattered. It also helped quell his anxiety over not exiting through the proper door.
As for any anxiety over what he was about to do? He was afraid of getting caught. That was all. Seanna Walsh had earned her fate the day she’d bewitched him. He could not rest while she lived, so she could not live.
Main Street was dark and deserted, leaving only the embers of the bonfire to guide him. It was enough. He went straight to Seanna’s stone. He snatched it up and put it into his pocket. Resisting the urge to run, he backed against the brick wall of the bank. Then he pushed one trembling hand into his pocket and found the smooth stone. As his fingers caressed it, he smiled.
Come morning, the townsfolk would gather early, stomachs too knotted to drink their morning coffee. One of the elders would go around the dead fire, collecting stones, one by one, and calling out the names. If any were missing…well, they all knew what that meant. At next year’s Nos Galan Gaeaf, that person would not lay a stone at the fire. They’d be dead under one, rottin
g in their grave.
Or that was the story. But there was a trick, and Lance knew it.
When Cainsville children were young, no one told them exactly what the rite of Coelcerth meant. That would be cruel—ruining the night for them as they lay in their beds, terrified that a parent or other loved one might not hear their name read out the next morning. Lance had been twelve when he overheard older kids talking, and the very thought of it had been a shock wave through his brain. It was as if all of his personal talismans and rituals had coalesced into simple perfection: a ward against the ultimate uncertainty. Would he survive another year? This rite would tell him. Every year, he could answer that question.
Last year, having passed his thirteenth birthday, he’d laid down his stone…and plummeted from the heights of absolute control to the depths of darkest doubt as he realized he had to wait until dawn to find out if he would live.
He couldn’t wait.
He’d snuck back to the bonfire and found his stone. Then he’d hidden in the shadows, waited and watched the spot where his stone lay. Several times, he thought he saw a flicker in that ring of stones. Thought he saw one disappear. He’d been about to check when he’d heard footsteps.
As he’d hid, a figure had appeared. Hooded and dressed in black.
The reaper. Death. Come to claim his due.
In terror, Lance had watched as the figure circled the bonfire. It crouched, reached into a pocket of those voluminous black robes, and pulled out a rock.
Next it pulled out a felt-tip marker, wrote something on the stone, and laid it in one of the empty places. Twice more the dark figure did that. Then it stood and under that hood, he’d seen the wizened face of one of the elders.
Lance had held himself still until the woman left. Then he’d fled all the way home.
Over the next year, Lance realized what he’d seen. The trick of Coelcerth. The truth about fate and certainty.
The elders didn’t take stones. They replaced them. Some of them, at least. Every Calan Gaeaf morning, a few would still be missing. When the rite finished, the elders would speak. They would warn.
If you did not hear your name, the die has been cast. But remember this: there is no fate you cannot undo. Take heed. Watch your health. Examine your life. Find out why your stone has vanished, and correct it while you can.
And those whose stones were missing? The absence rarely surprised anyone. They were people who ate too much, worked too hard, exercised too little, drank to excess, or had otherwise entered into a life too dangerous to survive.
The elders used Coelcerth not to frighten people, but to shake them out of their complacency.
Death is on your doorstep. Do something about it.
Some heeded that advice; some did not.
As for the stones the elders replaced, those were the deaths that could not be prevented. Accidents and tragedies. No one ever wondered why the rite of Coelcerth did not foresee these. It was presumed they were unforeseeable, that the rite did not guarantee you another year but merely suggested you were on the right path.
Lance knew the elders would replace Seanna’s stone. She would think she had another year. But she did not.
He smiled again. Then anxiety began gnawing at his gut, the one that insisted he had to be sure he hadn’t made any mistakes. He took out the stone and held it up in the moonlight.
Seanna W.
This stone was her grave marker. Seanna Walsh, R.I.P.
Lance snickered. Never had the epitaph been more accurate. He would rest in peace once Seanna Walsh was dead and gone.
He pocketed the stone again, making sure it nestled deep in his pocket where it couldn’t fall out. Then he headed down the passageway beside the bank. As he reached the end, his steps hitched, as if Hwch Ddu Gwta would leap out at him like it had for the fleeing children.
He smiled at the thought. The adults who played the role were long gone, the passage silent and empty, the park equally quiet. He took another step and—
A shadow slid over him.
Lance looked up to see an owl gliding over his head. The raptor landed on the playground fence. It perched on one of the cast-iron chimera head posts. He kept walking. The owl’s unblinking gaze followed him into the square.
Lance reached into his pocket to clutch the stone. The owl’s head swiveled, still following him. He had to circle the playground to get to the passageway that would take him home, and as the raptor’s head kept turning, his did, too, watching the bird, ready to bolt if it flew at him.
He knew that was silly. There were always owls in Cainsville. At night, he’d see them perched beside gargoyles, as if joining them in silent vigil. Spotting them always vanquished any fear he had of being out past dark. The owls and the gargoyles stood watch, so he was safe.
Tonight, he did not feel safe.
When a rustle sounded in the bushes behind the playground, Lance stopped so fast he stumbled. His hand flew from his pocket to stop his fall. The stone sailed free and thumped to the ground.
The rustling stopped.
Lance straightened and held himself still as he peered into the darkness. After a moment, he could see a figure half-hidden behind the bushes. A black shape on all fours.
Hwch Ddu Gwta. The tailless black sow.
Lance shook his head sharply, ashamed by the very thought. Really? Whatever magic there was on Nos Galan Gaeaf, no one even really pretended there was such a thing.
The tailless black sow will snatch the last.
It’d been years since a child had died in Cainsville, and never on Nos Galan Gaeaf. He was imagining things.
He took a step toward Seanna’s dropped stone. As he bent to pick it up, a snort from the bushes startled him, and he rose, stone forgotten. A black, misshapen figure rose from behind the bushes, low and hunched, making him think of the headless woman who accompanied the black sow.
As the figure stepped around the bushes, Lance scrambled backward, his hands rising to ward off…
“You have got to be kidding me,” Seanna said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He opened his mouth.
She beat him to it, saying, “Dumb question. You’re following me. Stalking me. Again.”
“I—”
“You just don’t take a hint, do you?” she said as she strode toward him. “I’m not interested, Lance Miller. You think this will get my attention? It only pisses me off, and you really don’t want to piss—”
Her foot kicked the stone. She stopped moving. They both did.
Silence.
Lance’s heart pounded, every fiber of his being screaming for him to lunge, to grab that stone. But he couldn’t move. Absolutely could not move.
Seanna reached down and picked up the polished stone. “This is…” Color bled from her pale face. “You stole my Coelcerth stone?”
“No, I—”
“I tell you I’m not interested, and you steal my stone to punish me? Let me spend a year thinking I’m going to die?”
She closed the gap between them in an angry stalk.
“You cowardly little prick. You don’t even have the balls to threaten me to my face. That’s it. I’m taking this to the elders. No more dealing with your bullshit. Let the town council handle it.”
She turned away, stone in hand, and that’s when his paralysis broke. He lunged. Knocked her flat on her ugly face. Grabbed her hair and yanked it back to slam that ugly face into the ground.
Bash it until it was bloody. Bash it until she never opened her foul mouth again. Bash it until he dashed her brains out. Until he was free.
As he slammed her face into the dirt, he waited for her scream. For her pain. For her fear.
Seanna didn’t make a sound.
He yanked her hair back again and—
Seanna ripped from his grasp. She rolled over, blood flying from her nose. As she raised her hand, he saw something clutched in it. A rock. A large one. She swung it against the side of his head, and everything went black.
—
LANCE OPENED HIS EYES to see the full moon overhead.
How was he seeing the moon from his bed?
And why did it feel as if he were lying…?
On the ground. He bolted upright as he remembered Seanna with her Coelcerth stone. Seanna with the rough-edged rock. Swinging it at his head.
He leaped to his feet and looked around, his head pounding.
He was alone beside the playground.
Damn it, no. No, no, no. He couldn’t let her tell the elders. Seanna might have thought he was only trying to frighten her, but the elders would know the truth, and if they did not, Rose would tell them.
This whole thing was a trap. Seanna had made him take her stone, and then she’d lain in wait to catch him. Why else would she have been out here?
Her fault. All hers.
He heard a noise from the street. The slap of shoes on pavement.
Seanna, returning her stone to the bonfire.
He still had time to stop her. Stop her and make her pay for her trick. He wouldn’t rely on old magic to get rid of her. She was right—that was the coward’s way. He would do this himself. He looked down at the rock she’d hit him with.
Justice.
Lance scooped it up and started for the passageway back to Main Street. He was just about to step into it when a shadow passed overhead. He looked up, ready to glower at the owl. Instead, he caught a flash of what looked like…
No, it was an owl. It must be. The yellow talons and feathered tail of an owl. Not stone-gray talons. Not the flick of a stone-gray tail.
Just an owl.
He picked up his pace as he crept between the buildings, his footsteps silent on the well-worn path. Shadows swallowed the moonlight, and he had to reach out with his free hand, fingertips grazing the brick wall as he used it to guide him.
When a figure stepped into the passageway, he gave a start. Then he shook himself. It was just Seanna. He could tell by her thin body and height, though she’d tried to trick him by donning one of the Hwch Ddu Gwta cloaks, the oversize black robe trailing behind her, hood up over her face.