The Raven's Head

by Karen Maitland

  Sometimes down in that shadowy dungeon, which is nearer Hell than Heaven, they make Peter drink bitter liquids till his guts burn as if he’s swallowed hot iron. If he gags, they clamp his mouth shut, tip his head back, so he is forced to swallow again what has risen up in his throat. Other times the liquid is sickly sweet. He does not mind that so much, except that afterwards his legs give way beneath him. He crumples to the floor and lies helplessly on the cold flags, staring upwards at the stone arches that twist like serpents, while the floor below him melts into a lake teeming with monstrous crabs that tear his skin with their pincers. He cannot fight them off. He screams, but there is no sound.

  He never remembers being returned to his bed, and in the morning when he drags himself from his pallet, head pounding, legs as heavy as tree trunks, he wonders if he’s dreamed it, until he sees the other boys’ wary glances in his direction. Then he knows he was the one who was taken.

  Peter shivers. He is cold beneath the thin blanket, but he no longer even admits that to himself. Last week he wished he could be warm and Father John knew what he’d wished for. He always knows what each boy is thinking, and he punishes each sinful thought.

  That night there’d been no goblet in Father Arthmael’s hands. Father Madron stripped Peter of his shirt, and Father John pushed him naked into a wooden box, so small he could only fit if he sat with knees drawn up and head bent. The box grew warm, then hot. White steam gushed up through the holes beneath him until he was struggling to breathe, trying to claw his way out, sobbing in panic, tears and sweat running together down his cheeks. Then came the moment of utter relief when the door swung open and they dragged him out, slippery as an eel, into the cool air.

  Holding him in a great basin, they scraped the sweat from his naked body with sharp slivers of black stone, which left shallow, stinging cuts across his back and thighs. His legs were scarlet from the watery blood running down them. He thought they would skin him, like he’d seen a flesher skin a goat.

  ‘Every drop,’ Father Arthmael urged. ‘Collect every drop of bloody sweat. It is a precious fluid, the dew of a child that purifies the soul, and I must begin the distillation at once, while it still contains the spirit.’

  That night Peter remembered being returned to the dorter – the icy air on his wet hair as he was pulled through the courtyard, the smart of the coarse blanket on his newly washed cuts, the sobs he tried to stifle in the straw of his pallet. Father John had paused and turned back. Peter cringed, but the priest crouched and gently stroked the boy’s damp hair.

  ‘Hush now, sleep. It is over.’ He bent closer and whispered, ‘You must understand, Peter, Father Arthmael does not do such things from cruelty. He seeks the greatest secret a man can possess. He has studied and conducted his experiments for many years, testing each substance carefully, harvesting the living essences from the young, which are the seed and primal matter of the universe. And now he believes he is close, so close, to achieving what he seeks. Nothing good can be gained without sacrifice, Peter. Remember the suffering of Christ and all the saints. They submitted joyously to pain and you must follow their example. Dry your tears and give thanks to the Blessed Virgin that you have been chosen to play a part in this great work. And remember, Peter, you must say nothing about what happens in the laboratorium, not even to your fellows. I shall know if you do and I will punish.’

  Peter shivers as the bell tolls again. Then he feels it. The blast of cold air as the door at the top of the dorter steps swings silently open. He shuts his eyes. If he cannot see Father John, then Father John cannot see him. The soft pad of sandals advances down the row of pallets towards him, measured, slow steps.

  Not me! Not me! Take someone else tonight, please . . . please!

  The footsteps pause. Peter’s eyes are screwed so tight they hurt. He waits. He grasps the blanket tightly over his chest as if it is a shield. He can hear the rasp of Father John’s breath in the darkness, smell the incense on his robe. The little boy waits for the hard fingers to clamp like a claw upon his arm.

  Then he hears a gasp that is not his own, the rustle of the straw pallet next to him as another boy is pulled from his bed. But Peter dare not open his eyes. He hears two pairs of sandals on the stairs, feels the breeze from the door as it opens and closes. Only then does he release his breath and a surge of relief washes over him, like a warm bath.

  Little Mighel knows better than to resist. He stumbles over the uneven flagstones, Father John gripping his shoulder, pushing him forward into the impenetrable darkness. But even though he knows full well where they are going, still he jerks back when they reach the heavy wooden door hiding the stairs that spiral down and down into the great red maw of that chamber. The child is seized with panic. He tries in vain to wrench himself from the hand that grasps him. He cannot help it, even though he knows there is no escape, knows that it will only lead to punishment and pain. Father John bends his head close to Mighel’s ear.

  ‘Come along, boy, you know there is nothing to fear. Father Arthmael is an abbot, the servant of God. It is your duty to obey him as you do me, for we know what is best for you. You have been here before, Mighel, and you know that the sooner you do as you are asked, the sooner you can sleep.’

  Mighel has been here before and he does now what he did then. He pretends he is not here. They are not here. He reaches for the amulet of St Michael and the dragon hanging round his neck, the one his father gave him long, long ago, before he went to sea. His father told him it would always keep him safe. Nothing could hurt him as long as he held on to St Michael. His father promised, and his father never lied.

  Mighel clutches the amulet in his fist so fiercely it hurts. St Michael will make the staircase and the dungeon vanish. He will slay Father John, Father Arthmael and all the canons with his spear and when Mighel opens his eyes he will be back in his own bed again, safe.

  Father John turns the iron ring. The door swings open. The staircase has not vanished.

  Chapter 21

  The wind carried it in its womb, its nurse is the earth.

  I swung the lantern around and discovered I was in a low, wide tunnel, which branched off in three directions. The sides and roof were sweating beads of water, which dripped down into the slimy puddles on the floor. Wooden props had been wedged in at intervals to hold the roof up, but small mounds of stones and soil marked where there had been falls. I’d spent half my life up in a turret looking down on the earth, and now, in that tunnel, I felt like a skylark trapped in a rabbit warren. In spite of the chill, damp air, I was already gasping for breath and sweating in panic at the thought of the weight of rocks pressing down on me. It was all I could do to stop myself bursting back up through the trapdoor again.

  Above me, I heard Tantine give a little scream. ‘Barbot! Barbot, you silly girl, what have you done now?’

  She roared for someone – anyone – to come and help. There was a pause. Then it sounded as if a herd of cattle was stampeding above me. Clods fell from the roof, covering me with a shower of dirt. I had to move and quickly, too. If Barbot was still alive and started to talk or they began searching for her attacker, Tantine was bound to think of the tunnel.

  But which way should I go? Moving around beneath that trapdoor had completely disoriented me and I no longer knew which way I was facing. Where was the town wall? Panic seized me: what if I took the wrong passage and got trapped?

  I found myself gripping the wooden box that swung at my side. And as if I could feel the raven’s beak pointing the way, my thoughts cleared. The footsteps of the men summoned from the tavern were approaching from my right. I shuffled round so that the sounds of running feet were behind me. That meant I had my back to the courtyard, so if one of these tunnels did lead out under the town wall, it would most likely be the one in front of me.

  Ducking as low as I could, I stumbled forward round the curve of the tunnel, praying that it would not get any narrower. I kept having to remind myself that if they could roll kegs of wine up this
tunnel the walls would have to remain at least wide enough for that. But I did not like the way the floor was gradually sloping down. The last thing I wanted was to go deeper.

  Was I under the wall yet? I must be. But that was far from comforting. All the height and weight of the towering stone wall were pressing down on this small tunnel, which, at that moment, seemed as fragile as a sparrow’s egg. I had to get out of there. I edged forward, but the gap had vanished and the feeble yellow light of the lantern struck only a wall of earth. There was nothing but a blank wall in front of me! This was a dead end. I was trapped and I found myself paralysed with fear. My legs would not go forward or back. Then I heard the grating echo of a stone being dragged across the flags. They’d opened the trapdoor. They were checking the tunnel.

  I slipped and slithered in the slimy mud as I edged towards the wall ahead of me, hoping desperately to find a hollow in which to conceal myself. I heard the soft pad of feet, the splash of a puddle. Someone was creeping along the passage behind me. I suddenly realised the glow from my lantern was shining back up the tunnel, leading them straight towards me. With trembling fingers, I lifted one of the horn panels and snuffed out the candle. The tunnel was instantly plunged into darkness. I stood rigid, holding my breath, but the footsteps kept coming and I could just make out something red flickering along the wall. Whoever was approaching was carrying a burning torch.

  Sick with fear, I turned away from the light and, sliding my right hand along the rough surface of the side of the passage, stumbled forward. I held out the other hand in front of me expecting any moment to collide with the end of the tunnel, but instead I felt the side wall against which I was pressing bend sharply right into a second branch of the tunnel, whose entrance must have been concealed in the shadows as I’d approached.

  A rush of cold air and the sound of running water burst in my ears. I glimpsed flashes of white and black shapes. I could make no sense of it, until it dawned on me that I was staring out through the branches of a wind-whipped bush into the moonlit river beyond.

  There was a yell and curse behind me. I guessed whoever was following me had just tripped over the lantern I’d abandoned. I darted forward, searching for somewhere to hide. It was too dark to see exactly where I’d emerged. I stepped forward expecting to feel solid ground, but the bank fell away sharply beneath me. My shoes were caked in the wet, slimy mud from the tunnel and could get no purchase on the grass. I seized a low branch to steady myself, but it broke off in my hand. One foot slid out from under me. I crashed to the ground and slipped straight down the muddy bank. Before I could grab at anything to stop myself, I plunged into the river. The icy water closed over my head. The shock drove the remaining breath from my body and, choking and gasping, I was swept away.

  Chapter 22

  His father took him to his heart and swallowed him out of joy and that with his own mouth.

  Regulus is dreaming, dreaming of a little boy he once knew called Wilky. Wilky is running for his life through the forest, trying to reach the safety of his little cottage before the lantern-man catches up with him. He can hear the lantern-man coming closer, the crackle of the twigs beneath his feet, his rasping breath. He daren’t turn and look at him, but he knows he is there.

  The boy can see his brothers and sisters playing outside, see his mother sitting in the doorway, plucking pigeons. He tries to scream for them to save him. But no sound comes from his mouth. He waves frantically, but his family ignore him. His legs won’t move. They’re stuck fast in the earth. His bare feet are burrowing down into the ground, his toes are growing long and thin, wriggling out like white roots. And he can hear the clanking of the chains. The lantern-man is almost upon him!

  Somewhere, far above him, the abbey bell is tolling. Regulus jerks awake, drenched in sweat, trembling. All around him, the shock-headed boys are trying to rouse themselves from their beds, feeling for their cold leather sandals with sleep-warmed toes, their eyes still closed. Not one wants to rise, but they fear the punishment that will fall upon them all if they are not dressed and ready to be marched to the chapel for Prime when Father John appears.

  ‘Where’s Mig?’ little Peter whispers.

  He kneels by the straw-filled pallet next to his own, tugs back the blanket in case Mighel might somehow be concealed beneath it, though not even the shadow of his friend could be hiding beneath that thin crumpled cover.

  Felix takes charge. ‘Anyone seen Mighel? Has he gone out already?’

  He enunciates the name firmly, though still in a whisper. Father John does not approve of the shortening of any saint’s name that has been bestowed on a boy. It is disrespectful to the saint, whom they should bless each time they have cause to use his name.

  One of the boys runs to the door and tries it, but it is still locked from the outside, as it always is at night, for boys, as Father John well knows, will get up to all kinds of mischief or worse if allowed to roam the abbey unsupervised.

  Peter still kneels disconsolately beside the empty bed. ‘He hasn’t come back,’ he says, staring miserably at the hollow in the pallet that still bears the outline of the boy, curled up like a woodlouse. ‘Father John chose him last night, I heard him, but he didn’t bring him back.’

  The boys freeze. Tiny threads of fear snake from one to another.

  ‘Did anyone see Mighel come back?’ Felix demands.

  They shake their heads. They heard the door open. They heard Father John’s heavy breathing as he padded on almost silent feet across the room. They heard the rustling as he shook someone, the slap-slap of the chosen boy’s sandals crossing to the door. But they had their eyes shut tight, pretending to be asleep. They fell asleep for real only when the selection had been made, only when the door had closed and they were still lying in their beds. They were safe then, at least for that night.

  But Peter knows where Father John stopped. He hangs his head, awash with misery. It is his fault Mighel is gone. He’d made it happen. He’d wished that Father John would choose Mighel instead of him. Father John knew what he’d wished for, he always knew.

  Felix sees the anxious faces of the younger boys and knows they are waiting for him to tell them what to do, what to think. ‘Get dressed quickly, all of you, before Father John arrives, and no one say a word about Mighel . . . I’ll try . . .’ he adds uncertainly.

  They dress in silence, rolling away their blankets, stacking their own pallets in a neat pile in the far corner, as they have been taught. Mighel’s pallet alone remains on the floor. They stare at it, unwilling to touch it, in case it might be cursed, in case they, too, vanish. Felix no more wants to move it than the younger boys, but he knows as the leader he cannot show fear. Besides, he will get the worst of it if Father John discovers the room unprepared. He takes a deep breath and heaves the pallet on top of the others. Now it is as if Mighel was never here, never one of them. Even the hollow where he lay has been shaken away, his shape erased. He is expunged.

  The door opens and Father John stands at the top of the small flight of stairs. His white robes billow in the cold draught that enters with him. With the pale dawn light behind him, he is faceless, as if a hooded robe has reared up in the doorway without anyone inside.

  The boys line up hastily as he closes the door and glides down the centre of the room, jerking up chins to see if faces have been washed, grabbing wrists and checking for dirty fingernails. All the time, his grey eyes dart back and forth, his gaze quartering the room, hunting for anything that might be out of place.

  As Father John passes each boy and moves on down the line, Felix sees that boy’s eyes swivel towards him, waiting. A row of anxious faces stare at him, willing him to ask what they are all desperate to know. He is afraid. Loose tongues are punished, he knows that only too well. But is it forbidden to ask a question? He is the leader. The boys look up to him. Their respect is all he possesses. His mouth has gone as dry as a cinder.

  ‘Please, Father John. Mighel is missing . . . absent. Is he . . .’ Felix tr
ies to think of a reason to offer Father John that will cause no offence. ‘Is Mighel sick, Father? Should we pray for him?’

  Father John pauses in his slow perambulation and turns towards him. Felix is greatly relieved to see there is no anger in his face.

  ‘You should pray for every boy and man in this abbey, Felix, sick or not. Pray for their souls day and night.’ A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. ‘But since you are concerned about the welfare of your fellow pupil, which is to be commended, I can set your fears at rest. God be praised, Mighel enjoys good health. But his parents came for him. They wished for him to return home and help in the family business. We are sorry to lose him but, naturally, if the parents ask for their son, we must let him go.’

  Felix sees relief spreading across the faces of Peter and the younger boys. More than relief, a brilliant flash of hope that one day soon their families will come for them. They are grinning, almost bubbling over with delight, after their fear. If Mighel can go home to his family, then it could happen to any of them.

  Little Regulus is hugging himself as if he already feels his mother’s arms clasping him to her. His parents promised they would come to visit him. They have not come yet. But now that Mighel’s family have taken him home, his own parents will come soon, he knows it. Maybe they will even come today.

  Only Felix does not smile. He feels a cold, painful lump in his gullet. For he alone remembers that Mighel is an orphan, with neither kith nor kin to care for him. His father’s ship was lost at sea, his mother dead of a fever. Felix is certain that wherever Mighel is now, he is not safe in his mother’s arms – at least, not in this world, he isn’t.