The Wolf in the Attic

by Paul Kearney

  I sag. The pain is rising in me now, and I see that I am kneeling in a pool of blood. It is pouring down out of my fingers in a black stream.

  There is a swooping blackness that fills my head for a second, and when it passes I find I am up off the track, astride the pale horse before Gabriel, and an arm hard as oak is holding me there. I struggle for a second, on instinct alone.

  ‘Hush now child. I mean you no harm.’

  Black figures crowding down the track, and the swinging glow of a lantern. A woman’s voice rises up in a shriek, and the sound makes me shiver and squirm.

  ‘Let us go,’ Gabriel says quietly ‘They have their dead to mourn.’ And the tall horse turns under us and begins walking to the north, towards the river. The wolf trots alongside silent as a shadow.

  The pain grows less. The warmth of the horse and of Gabriel makes me almost drowsy. But my blood is trickling down the flank of the great animal. I am leaking at the seams, and I do not greatly care.

  ‘Am I going to die?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, child.’

  ‘I killed a man back there. I have that sin on me.’

  ‘It was no sin, to fight for your own life. Your soul is clean.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to hell.’

  ‘Nor shall you. That test you passed also.’

  My mind is slipping in and out of the night. I look down at the wolf trotting faithfully beside us. Then I feel the change of gait as the pale horse slips into a canter, picking up speed, its mane flowing out like white flame in front of me.

  For some reason I think of the horse on that last day on the docks of Smyrna, galloping wide eyed and on fire through the crowd, and somehow it seems almost as though things have come full circle. This horse I am on shall take me out of the world with it. And I shall see them all again, Ma and Pa and Nikos.

  I am not thinking very clearly. I must have dreamed. But I am sure that we are moving even faster now, the horse galloping under me with a motion as regular as the rocking of a boat. Luca the black wolf keeps pace with it, loping tirelessly beside us.

  And we are not on the ground, but soaring through the air, and the whole wide land of England is spread out under me in the moonlight, the hills and woods and rivers and the tall stones and the ancient barrows. It seems almost for a second that I see a shape, a pattern to it.

  ‘So beautiful,’ I say, trying to keep my head up, my eyes open. It is my own country, the place of my heart. I know that now. I belong here at last.

  22

  SO IT WAS a dream I suppose. It certainly felt like one.

  I lie and watch the shadows on the ceiling come and go. A dark wood ceiling, and the sunlight is fretting across it, a breeze stirring lace curtains and letting the light in and out.

  For a long time, all I am is a pair of eyes, a single sense. All I do and all I want to do is watch the shadows above me come and go.

  I am alive. For some reason I am surprised. I watch the play of light and shadow above me and try to make things add up in my head.

  My other senses begin to work as well. I am in a bed, on clean sheets and with a patchwork blanket lying upon me, bright as a toddler’s finger-painting.

  I can hear birdsong outside the window, and I think a motor car in the distance. And somewhere close there are footsteps coming and going on a stone floor, and the clink of plates.

  And I can smell baking bread. The homeliest smell in the world. It must be Mrs Bramley, down in the kitchen.

  I turn my head – my neck is very stiff – and tucked in beside me in the bed is Pie, eyes closed.

  I reach out and touch her white face. Her dress has been washed and has come up like new, except where the burn-marks remain. My shoulder aches. I leave her be. It is so much easier to simply lie here, to simply –

  I raise my arm again and see it is bandaged in white linen, the knots neat and tidy.

  The dream flutters in and out of my head. I look around the room, at the washstand with its basin and jug, an old wardrobe in a corner, a picture on the wall – a framed tapestry, a bible quote:

  AND BEHOLD, I am with thee, and will keep thee in all places whither thou goest, and will bring thee again into this land; for I will not leave thee until I have done that which I have spoken to thee of.

  I TURN MY head. ‘It wasn’t a dream, was it Pie?’ And despite the pain that stabs through my shoulder, I take her in my arms and her black eyes open and close as if to agree.

  The door opens, and in comes a tall, ruddy-faced woman with her grey hair up in a bun. She wipes flour-dusted hands on her apron and smiles down on me.

  ‘Well, thee’s awake at last. Now that’s just champion. How do you feel me dear?’

  I stare at her. ‘I don’t know where I am.’

  ‘Don’t thee be fretting on that. Just know that you is safe and sound here with us. There ain’t nothing to worry about Anna.’

  I believe her. She has a good face, broad and kind.

  ‘Was it all real then?’ I ask. Some things I remember, and some I forget, and some I don’t want to remember ever again.

  She leans over the bed and touches me lightly on the forehead.

  ‘The fever is down. The poison is out of thee at last. You will be well now, child. All shall be well. Lie quiet now, and I’ll bring thee some soup and bread.’

  LATER, SHE FEEDS me spoonful by spoonful, a rich broth full of leeks and pearl barley, and she breaks off pieces of warm bread for me to chew, putting them into my mouth one by one. I don’t mind, for my arms hurt every time I raise them.

  The sun wears round, and she lights an oil lamp in the corner and turns the wick down low. I look at the passing daylight outside the window and shivers go up and down my back as I think of the frost on the Downs, the chalk track, and the camp on Badon Hill.

  And every time I close my eyes, I see the yellow stare of the old wolf.

  I sleep, Pie’s head next to mine, and when I wake up again the curtains have been drawn and the room is quite dark except for the lamp, and there are voices in the house. I haul myself up until I am sitting, and find I am dressed in an old-fashioned striped nightshirt, and there is not a part of me that does not seem to be scratched or twisted or bruised in some way. There is a thicket of black stitches on my right arm, like intersecting lines of marching ants. I can feel bandages on my feet, like thick socks, and my toes are throbbing under the blanket.

  And my hair has been cut short. I run my fingers through it, more astonished by that than anything else. It has been trimmed back to the nape of my neck. I wonder what I look like. There is no mirror to tell me.

  Clumping footsteps, and the door opens again. This time it is a face I know.

  Gabriel.

  He stands there with a pipe in his mouth, and he is the farmer on the cart again who once gave me a lift to Oxford Station.

  But if I stare hard enough the other thing is there also. The creature with the stag antlers which rode the pale horse. A kind of king.

  He takes the pipe out of his mouth and meets my eyes with a quirky smile. ‘Aye,’ he says quietly. ’Tis a lot to take in.’

  He sits on the bed beside me and pats my knee.

  ‘Ask me,’ he says simply.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You is in Aldgarth Farm, in Yarnton, north o’ Oxford.’

  It sounds so ordinary. I almost want to laugh at him. After everything, after all that has happened, there is still Oxford, and women with kind faces, and soup, and Pie next to me in the bed – a real bed, with clean sheets. It does not seem quite right that such things should be, not after the sights I have seen in the night. Not after I have...

  ‘Did I die?’ I ask, very quiet.

  Gabriel’s face becomes grave.

  ‘You are here, and alive and well, my dear. Our doctor stitched you up, and so far as he knows you was bit by a dog.’

  My head whirls. Now I do laugh, but I am close to tears at the same time.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I
am, Mister Gabriel, or what’s to become of me.’

  ‘Know this then; this is my home Anna, and now it is yours too, for as long as you wish.’

  That throws me. I feel a rush of relief, even a kind of happiness. I don’t want to be homeless anymore. Being an orphan is bad enough.

  ‘Thank you – it’s very good of you,’ I say carefully. And then the question pops out, ‘Who are you – who are you really?’ My voice drops as I speak. It feels impertinent, but I have to – I have to know.

  Gabriel looks at me solemnly.

  ‘I am the last of a long line o’ folk that has been here since this land first became an island. There is in me a power, a memory. I am the guardian of the last bits and pieces of the Old World.’ He shrugs. ‘And I am Gabriel Alden, with thirty acres to farm and a living to make.’

  It doesn’t help, not really. But I know one thing. Something I have to say.

  ‘You saved me – didn’t you?’

  ‘You saved yourself girl, not once but twice.’

  I shake my head, remembering without wanting to.

  ‘What am I, Gabriel?’ I ask him quietly.

  ‘Ah.’ He laughs. ‘Now there’s a harder question. They thought you was a young witch, those you were running from. Me, I’m not so sure. There is a bloodline in you I can’t quite fathom.’

  ‘Perhaps it goes back to Troy, and Agamemnon – or Odysseos,’ I say, grabbing for old straws.

  ‘Perhaps it does, Anna. That is something we shall have to ponder out in time. But I would not be dwelling too much on it now. You has had enough o’ the Old World for a while, and it will always be there waiting for you.’

  I am not sure I am so glad of that.

  Then I lift up Pie. ‘How did you get her back?’

  He chuckles. ‘That there doll was left at the gate by persons unknown. A peace offering I thinks you might call it. The travelling folk are licking their wounds. They made their play, and it went bad on ’em. They has scattered again, I hear. Most of ’em are moving into the west. I don’t think we’ll see ’em in this part o’ the world for a while to come.’

  I think on this, and finally say the name that has been in my head all this time.

  ‘What about Luca?’

  Gabriel nods, and a certain grimness comes into his face.

  ‘Boy! He cries. ‘Get in here!’

  My heart is fluttering as the door creaks open and Luca puts his face around it. He looks paler, and is lean as a rake, but he half-smiles as he shuffles in.

  We stare at each other. Gabriel looks us both up and down. ‘Not much to say, eh? Set thee down, boy. I’ll let the pair of you alone. Supper will be on the table soon though. Don’t be tiring her – she ain’t on her feet yet, nor near it.’

  ‘How long have I been here?’ I ask Gabriel.

  ‘Three days. My Mary has been watching over you morn and night, and this one has been in and out like a jack in the box, when he ain’t out in the fields with me. You had some bad infection from all the bites and scratches and whatnot. And there was so much filth in your hair Mary had to crop it off. But it’ll grow again. You are young, and whole, and you’ll have a few scars Anna, but in time you’ll be as right as rain.’

  He leans over and kisses me on the forehead.

  ‘Don’t be lettin’ any night frights and noises worry you, not in this house. There ain’t nothing out there in the dark that can touch you no more. I promise you that.’

  Then he leaves the room, clapping Luca so hard on the shoulder that the boy staggers.

  Luca is wearing a shirt and breeches that are far too big for him, twine for a belt, and a flat cap screwed up in his hands as though he is wringing out a sponge.

  The cat gets my tongue for a long drawn out minute.

  ‘You look like a boy,’ Luca says at last.

  ‘I do not!’

  ‘Your hair, ’tis shorter than mine.’

  I run my hand over it. Not a sleek bob, just a shorn sheep look it seems.

  ‘Well, I don’t care.’

  ‘Nor me either,’ he says, and smiles.

  I start to giggle. On impulse, I hold out my hand. He stumps over to the bed and takes it.

  ‘I’m sorry for what happened,’ I say.

  ‘Tain’t for you to say sorry,’ he replies gruffly.

  Perhaps there are other things we should both be saying, but I know neither of us wants to hear them, not right now. This moment here is enough.

  His hand is cool on mine and the touch of it dizzies me a little.

  ‘How long are you going to stay?’ I ask him.

  ‘As long as you,’ he answers, and colour floods his pale face. ‘That’s to say, as long as you want.’ He drops my hand and clears his throat. ‘That Gabriel, he has plenty o’ work to do about the place, and I have a room of my own out back, and there’s horses to work up, and fields to plough for the spring sowing...’ He trails off.

  ‘He was your enemy,’ I say.

  ‘That’s what I was told,’

  ‘We were both told a lot of things, I suppose,’

  ‘That we were.’

  We look at each other.

  ‘I want you to stay,’ I tell him. ‘You’re the only friend I have in the world.’

  He slaps his cap on his thigh. ‘I will then.’

  ‘Well that’s all right.’

  Suddenly we are both grinning at each other like fools.

  ‘Boy!’ the woman’s voice calls out. ‘Supper is ready. Make sure thee washes thy hands.’

  Luca bends over and kisses me on the cheek. Then he straightens, face flaming, and pads out of the room.

  I lie back in the bed. I laugh again, for no reason at all.

  Or perhaps it is because I feel that I have finally come home.

  Acknowledgements

  THIS BOOK WOULD not have come into existence without the faith and patience of Ben Smith, to whom I owe a great debt of gratitude.

  And acknowledgements are also due to Liam Arbuthnot, Darren Turpin, and the other members of the Old Forest Social Club, for reading over the manuscript and encouraging me when I was unsure if I was barking up the wrong tree altogether.

  And finally, none of it would have been possible without the love and support of my wife Marie, who is an inspiration to me every day.