The Beast of Noor

by Janet Lee Carey

“Strange color,” said Mother. “It’s almost gray. And it’s growing right over that cut you got a few weeks back.”

  “It’s very thick for a starter,” said Da proudly.

  Hanna agreed with Mother. A strange-looking beard. Not dark brown like Miles’s hair, or even red brown as she’d seen on many a farmer and fisherman. It didn’t look so much like a man’s beard as their sheepdog Koogan’s thick fur. She frowned to herself, then catching Miles’s wary eyes, lifted her lips to smile.

  Tymm was dancing round the table. Chanting, “It’s not every day a boy gets a beard!” over and over until Mother made him sit again.

  “Give my son some ale,” said Da.

  “Oh, he’s much too young for that,” Mother said.

  “I say it’s time.” Da poured a tall mug for himself and a small one for Miles. “Take up your mug of tea, Mother,” said Da. “And yours, too. Tymm and Hanna.” They all raised their cups.

  “To my son,” said Da. “Soon to be a man!”

  He plucked his fiddle from the wall. “Bring out your flute, son, and we’ll play us a tune.”

  Miles shook his head. “Not tonight, Da.”

  Da replaced the fiddle, sat again and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Hanna stirred the fire. The cottage seemed all too silent without the evening’s music for she’d been used to Miles and her da playing most nights.

  If Granda were still alive, he’d tell them all a story, whichever one they asked for but the Shriker’s tale, and she’d never ask for that. She kneaded the memory of the Shriker’s tale in her mind, pressing it down as she would press against rising bread dough, until it was well tucked in.

  Mother patted Tymm’s head. “Bedtime, little man.”

  Da yawned and stretched. “I’m all done in myself.”

  Hanna hung up the drying towel, kissed Mother and Da, and left the kitchen.

  In her room she lit the candle and changed into her sleeping gown. The wool blanket felt heavy across her body; still, she shivered in her cot remembering the paddy paws that had followed Rory Sheen. And how his own dog, turned monster by the man’s betrayal, had devoured him at last.

  Miles had spent the last hours with Granda before he died. Had he told Miles more about the Shriker then? Were there some who heard his call, like the Falconer said? She wanted to ask Miles, but he’d gone strangely silent since the wolf attacked them on the byway. She knew it wasn’t his fault, only that he was late to fetch her, but she hadn’t been able to convince him of that. If she went to him with her questions now, he wouldn’t speak with her, she knew that, too. So she pulled the blanket up to her chin, closed her eyes, and tried to sleep.

  Over the next few nights, as the moon waxed from gibbous to full, Hanna began to notice a far-off sound. The wolves are calling in the woods, she thought. They’re howling at the moon, and that is all. She did not go in search of the Falconer, as she’d been told, but kept the sound secret. It was only a wolf pack, after all.

  Night on night she felt the call come louder. And soon there was another reason she kept the calling secret. There was music in the howl. A sad song that fingered down her throat, moving toward her heart. Soon it was the beauty of the song that made her keep it to herself, for she didn’t want the tune to leave her.

  As the moon swelled to fullness in the sky, the nocturnal song grew louder, deeper, richer, laying an enchantment on her. At last she fell under its magic spell. The song drew her from her bed. She slid outside her window and wandered through the garden gate.

  Wrapped only in her sleeping gown, Hanna left the cottage for the trees.

  THE DEERS

  And his moon call is a spell song to those who come to die in his jaws.

  —THE LEGEND OF THE SHRIKER

  MILES COULDN’T FIND HIS SLEEP AND LEFT HIS COT TO pace the hall. Seeing Hanna’s door open, he stepped inside, and his breath caught in his throat. Gone! How had she left without his hearing? How long had she been gone? No time to run back to his room, he slipped through Hanna’s window. Hanna’s dreamwalks rarely took her far before she woke. Never farther than the garden or the well. He was sure to find her. Still, he cursed himself for letting her get out, especially now.

  Miles searched the garden. He’d learned not to startle her awake, but just guide her home. The one time he’d tried to wake her, she’d howled and wept into her hands. He’d held her while she shook. She wouldn’t tell him what she’d seen in her dreamwalk that night, more than to say, “The unicorn. The beautiful …” She choked and cried out. “Don’t kill her!”

  It had taken him all night to calm her down again. After that he’d never tried to awaken Hanna from her dreamwalks. His sister came awake peacefully enough when she did so on her own.

  Miles checked the fence and the sheepfold. Not there. He hurried to the barn and looked in every stall. Gib flicked his tail and whinnied. Miles ran outside and circled the cottage. Not at the well, either. Now he was stumbling through the long grass toward Granda’s grave on the high hill. He didn’t shout her name, for in her dream she wouldn’t hear his call, but he looked for some sign of her, anything to tell him where she’d gone.

  Ten minutes later he was racing for the forest’s edge. Not Shalem Wood. She couldn’t have gone in there! He plunged into the trees, found a path. Kept running.

  His feet pounded the forest floor, he heard his breath, his heart thundering in his ears. But the woods were strangely quiet. Stars spread out above and glittered cold silver over the trees.

  He took the right-hand path. One he’d traveled with the Falconer only weeks before when they’d gone herbing. It was then he saw a flash of movement half a mile ahead. Hanna! It must be! What kind of dream would take the girl so far from home? Miles sped past white-barked elms and wizened oaks.

  In the moonlight Hanna’s sleeping gown was a pale silver color, her movements flowing as a leaf riding downriver. She traveled with a sureness of direction beyond the ken of a dreamwalker.

  On she went, and her steps were gathering speed, but he should catch up to her soon. She changed direction suddenly and disappeared through the bracken. He couldn’t lose her now!

  Miles raced uphill and dived through the undergrowth, his sleeve catching on the brambles. Had she gone in here?

  “Hanna!”

  The name echoed through the wood. No answer from his sister, who was still lost in her dream.

  Shadows moved, growing large, then small, as the moon went in and out behind the clouds. Leaves stirred in the maple trees, like so many small hands in warning. And as he entered a cool, dank place in the wood, a rotten smell outran the wind. Miles’s pulse quickened. The smell meant danger. He had to find hen Wake her up this time. Crying fit or no.

  He must have left the trail at the wrong place. Fighting his way back through the brambles, he found the trail again. Ran farther up. A flash of white on his left. There!

  “Stop,” he called. Rushing to her from behind, he grabbed Hanna’s arms. “Come away now!”

  Hanna broke free and ran toward the towering pines. A swirling sound grew from somewhere near the giant boulder in the center of the deeps. A shadow rose from the forest floor. First came the giant head, then the broad shoulders and the long, furry back. The shadow grew darker, broader, until it formed a monstrous dog, bigger than a wild bear. He fixed his coal-bright eyes on Hanna. With his head raised, the black beast was six feet tall, if not seven, standing on all fours.

  Miles saw all this in the time it took to heave a shudder, and he knew at the same moment he was looking at the Shriker.

  Hanna held fast to the spot as the beast towered over her. She seemed enspelled by his glowing eyes, for she did not move legs, nor feet, nor arms, nor mouth to free a scream.

  Miles wanted to cry, “Run!” But the Shriker hadn’t yet seen him. A weapon! He needed a weapon! In his haste to follow Hanna he hadn’t brought his bow or knife, and he cursed himself for it. He must fight the thing, but with what? His bare hands?

 
; A growl deep and low as the earth itself poured from the Shriker’s throat, Miles’s knees fairly went out from under him as the dog bared his fangs and narrowed his glowing eyes at Hanna.

  Miles glanced about for something to fight him with. Anything, The pine to his right whispered in the wind, and he looked up. He’d attack the beast from above. He climbed up the ancient tree and scooted out onto a sturdy limb near the top. There he broke off a slender branch. He’d land on the Shriker’s neck and thrust it deep into the beast’s eye. Miles gazed down, stick in hand. Trembling.

  On the ground below, the monster’s head swayed back and forth over Hanna. He snarled and opened his jaws.

  In a flash Miles leaped off the branch.

  The beast moved as he plummeted down, and Miles saw that he’d leaped too fan Within a split second he’d miss the monster’s back and be smashed to pieces on the boulder Miles dropped the stick, clamped his jaw, spread his arms, and held a picture in his mind.

  Aetwan.

  Falcon.

  Giant falcon.

  Open.

  Breathe.

  There was a sudden prickling in his arms and a spreading of his flesh flat against the air. His arms lengthened, legs shortened, eyes sharpened. At the moment of change he swerved away, just inches from the boulder, and shot upward on giant falcon wings.

  Miles swooped down low. With a searing cry he tore off a piece of the monster’s ear. The Shriker howled, his jaws wide as a crack in the earth. He leaped up, clawing the air wildly, but Miles flew just above his reach. Pumping his broad wings, he circled the treetops, then dived again, ready for the kill.

  Suddenly, down below, the Shriker shape-shifted, his thick fur lengthening to feathers, his forelegs sprouting into giant wings. Miles watched with fear and wonder as the beast changed shape. He tore away from the earth with a strange ripping sound. Then he flung himself into flight, his deep growl rising to a falcon’s cry.

  Miles darted over the pines as the Shriker pumped behind. Turning suddenly about, he flew at his enemy. Crashing into the beast, he clawed his feathered chest with his sharp talons. The Shriker clawed him back, but Miles pumped his wings to stay in place long enough to gash the creature’s left eye.

  With a wide-beaked scream the enemy flew higher. He circled once, then threw his full weight at Miles, ripping off part of his wing.

  Pain flooded Miles’s body as huge, bloody feathers twirled to the forest floor. He struggled desperately to free himself, but the deadly talons were embedded in his flesh. With mighty screams, both creatures hurtled to the earth.

  FALLING

  “I name you sbriker. Shape-Shifter. Mighty Hunter.”

  —THE LEGEND OF THE SHRIKER

  HANNA STOOD BACK, SUCKING IN SMALL, FEARFUL BREATHS as she stared at the giant falcon sprawled on the moonlit ground. She’d seen Miles fall from the tree. Watched his body elongate, his arms growing into wings as he changed from boy to bird. It was this startling change that had finally torn her from her trance and woken her to the hideous beast swaying overhead.

  The scream that was lodged inside her throat had escaped at last. She fled her attacker, then whirled round just in time to see the Shriker’s transformation—quick as a shifting shadow—from monstrous dog to giant bird as he took off after Miles.

  Bloody feathers fell, and the screeching was so loud she covered her ears. “Miles!” she cried. “He’ll kill you! Come out of the falcon’s form!” But Miles did not change back.

  Less than ten feet away from her now a wounded falcon lay bleeding, but which one? How could she be sure in its present form if this wounded thing was brother or beast? Uncertain and shivering, she stood apart, held in place by fear.

  In the woods not far away a misshapen shadow gathered into itself. It limped through the bracken, dark to darkness moving. Under the cover of night it vanished into the deeps. A smell of death and decay went with it, and a bitter hunger clung to its insides.

  Night clouds swept across the sky, and the stars appeared as small and bright as scattered coins on the ocean floor. A gust of fresh wind filled the woods. Slowly the form beside the boulder changed, talons to feet, wings to arms, body to boy. And Hanna saw the familiar face of her own brother.

  “Miles!” She ran and knelt beside him.

  “I drew his blood,” said Miles, smiling.

  “As he drew yours.” She tore the hem of her sleeping gown, wrapped it around his bloody arm from shoulder to elbow, and tied it in place. The wound was deep, and blood seeped through the makeshift bandage, “You need help,” said Hanna, suddenly afraid for him. “We must get home.”

  Miles reached up with his good arm. “Help me up.”

  She drew him slowly to his feet. And together they left the deeps.

  They traveled for close to an hour, and still she wandered on unfamiliar ground. She knew Miles could find his way out of Shalem Wood anytime he was well and strong, but he was too weak to show her the way out now. Unsteady and silent, he walked with his head drooped. He seemed unaware of where they were and could barely lift his feet. She pressed her hand against his bloody bandage and guided him along.

  Hanna found a trail at last and took it, hoping to find help, but the trail ended in a glade. She held Miles up, panting, trying to gather her strength. She must go on, for he was losing too much blood; even now she felt the sticky fluid on her hand where she pressed it against his shoulder.

  Across the glade a knoll rose up with an ancient cedar tree atop. Its broad trunk covered nearly the whole hill. Peering through the dark, she saw what looked to be an ivy-covered door set into the base of the hill. She dragged Miles up to it, wanting to knock, yet fearing what may be on the other side. Before she could decide what to do, the door swung open of its own accord and showed a blazing fire at the hearth within, Granda had told her trolls from Oth sometimes crept into Shalem Wood, Some were said to claim hollow hills or hermits’ houses for shelter. Fearing dark magic, Hanna was about to turn from the dwelling, but Miles tore away from her, staggered into the room, and fell facedown upon the floor.

  The Falconer stepped out, it seemed from the very wall, and hovered over Miles. So this was where Miles’s teacher lived. Hanna caught a startled breath, then cried, “Help him. Can you, please?”

  “We’ll lay him over there,” said the Falconer. Together they lifted Miles to the pallet against the far wall and covered him with a rough blanket. Hanna saw that the walls themselves were nothing but dirt and stone, and the place where the Falconer hung his cloak was a simple jutting root.

  “It’s his arm,” said Hanna.

  “Ah, it’s more than that,” said the Falconer, unwrapping the bloody rag. “You’ll bring me a bowl of warm water from the pot, and the clean cloth on the table.” Hanna did as she was told. The Falconer rubbed a spiky leaf between his hands, then carefully bathed Miles’s arm. She bit her lip as the glowing firelight revealed how deep the wounds were. The Shriker’s talons had cut three gashes from shoulder to elbow. All in a straight line, like furrows in the soil. Halfway down Miles’s arm a bit of white bone showed through. Her stomach tightened at the sight.

  Fearing she might be sick, Hanna turned her back, but the Falconer pressed the washing leaf to her, saying, “Wipe your hands with this.” She scrubbed her hands with the rough leaf, which felt like moist sand on her palms and smelled like winterleaf. When she looked back at the pallet, the Falconer was rinsing his cloth in the water bowl. The water had gone from pink to red. He cleaned the wound again. Miles moaned as the old man worked.

  “You’re hurting him.”

  The Falconer paid her no mind at all. Laying the cloth aside, he left the room and returned with a tincture bottle. ORASIAN, the label said. He measured out a bright orange spoonful and gave it to Miles. Next he took a piece of moldy bread from the cupboard, scraped the mold onto a dry cloth, and brought it to the cot.

  “What are you doing?” asked Hanna in alarm.

  “I’ll be protecting the wound against aft
er-ill if you move aside.”

  “With moldy bread?”

  “Ah, and there may not be enough, at that.”

  “You’ll poison him,” cried Hanna.

  “He’s already poisoned, if I know the claw that tore the boy. Now, you’ll hold his arm for me while I apply it if you’re wanting to keep your brother.”

  “Promise you’ll heal him.”

  The Falconer’s look softened. “There’s none can promise that, Hanna. But I can try.”

  Against the rough covers Miles’s face had gone gray, and his features had the same lost look as Granda’s had before he died. Hanna felt suddenly more afraid than ever. And she quickly did what she was told.

  The Falconer applied the green powder to the edges of the wound. “Now,” he said, “press the wound together, so.”

  She held the skin together while the healer plucked leaves from a bundle hanging from his ceiling. Heal him, heal him, she thought as the Falconer moved about slowly and deliberately. You’re a leafer and you can. But she knew too that the wounds were of another kind altogether, and herbs might not be enough.

  The healer softened long green leaves with steam from his boiling kettle, then cooled them in the air. “Stitch leaves,” he said. “Hold his arm steady while I lay them on the wounds, and keep a good grip on his arm until they dry. The stitch leaves will knit the wounds together better than any sutures could.”

  Hanna held Miles’s arm. She: watched his face, heard his shallow breathing. It’s my fault he’s hurt so, she thought, and with the thought tears came. She drew her head back a little so they wouldn’t fall on Miles or on the Falconer’s hands as he worked.

  When the stitch leaves were dry, the leafer wrapped the wounded arm in pale cloth, shoulder to elbow, to wrist. Hanna stepped back, watching, waiting. The Falconer spoke quiet words over her brother in the Othic tongue. She heard the name of the Maker, eOwey, and the word abathan, “peace.” So she thought he must be saying a kind of prayer, though she couldn’t understand the other words or why he paused between the saying of each line to lift his hands to the four directions. All was new to her. The leafer had come to tend Granda, and he and Old Gurty had brought herbs to Mother when her throat pained her, but Hanna had never watched them at their work.