by Cate Cain
It had made the journey suddenly much more bearable. Snowflakes the size of sovereigns had begun to fall, adding a glistening, powdery layer to the snow that had already settled.
Jem thought that they were travelling north. They followed an overgrown trackway – to Jem the path was almost invisible, but Mingan seemed to trace it easily. Every so often he paused and studied the landscape, then nodded to himself and strode ahead. They didn’t speak much now, the going was too hard, but Jem’s head was full of uneasy questions. If Madame had survived the battle, where would she have gone next? If she wasn’t on their trail then wasn’t it likely that she’d gone to Cazalon? In which case both of them would be hunting for Ann.
Madame had taken so much trouble to bring her to this land, surely she wouldn’t give up now? He already knew that Cazalon would never give up. The sour taste of fear made Jem’s mouth go dry.
His breathing suddenly became fast and shallow and he fumbled to loosen the bone toggle of the fur cloak. Its sharply pointed end cut into the skin beneath his chin. Gulping down a lungful of air, Jem shoved the tangle of his fringe back into the the hood and peered through the snow at Mingan’s fur-clad back.
Safety, that’s what he’d promised. But could you ever be safe from a man like Cazalon?
Tolly stopped and turned back to stare at him. Jem realised that his friend had heard his thoughts.
Jem hunched his shoulders and leaned forward so that the hood of his brown cloak slipped down to cover his face. The snow was falling thickly now and their progress had become slower and slower. The ground rose sharply underfoot and the fir trees were becoming sparse. A ribbon of ice trailed through the rocks beside them. Mingan was leading them along a frozen stream.
“How much further?” Jem called, his voice muffled by the furs.
Mingan looked up and narrowed his eyes. “The snow will slow us, but by nightfall we will be sitting by the fire in my father’s longhouse and eating good stew. I promise. Now, come.”
Good stew. Pocket’s face swam into Jem’s mind and he remembered how the boy had spoken about his mother’s cooking. Jem sighed heavily. Poor Pocket. He’d never taste that stew again now.
After the days on the ship and now here in the forest, the thought of sitting by a crackling fire and eating hot food again was wonderful, but Jem wished that Pocket could share it with them, and Spider too.
Mingan said Spider had escaped, hadn’t he? Jem wondered where he was now.
They trudged upward in silence for an hour more until they came to a ridge. The snowfall was lighter here and Jem could see more clearly. Mingan moved to the edge of the outcrop and leaned forward.
“The path down will be icy – we must take great care. Shall I carry you on my back, Moon Child?”
Ann shook her head. “No. I’ll be careful. Are we near?”
Mingan nodded. “My people are below.” A shaft of sunlight pierced the leaden clouds. He smiled and turned to look into the valley that spread below the rocky crags. Jem saw his expression darken and stepped forward to look too. Far below, long, curved hut-like structures were clustered around the edge of a wide lake. A thin plume of smoke coiled from one of the huts, but there were no other signs of life. It was silent. He glanced uncertainly at Mingan. This was his home?
Mingan’s wide nostrils twitched. Gradually, Jem became aware of something too. The air coming up from the valley was laced with something sour, something rotten.
He looked down again and realised that the circular lake didn’t reflect the weak, low sun now emerging from the clouds. The snow crusting the edges was dirty and the still, black water was utterly dead and frozen.
Mingan turned in a slow circle at the centre of the desolate village. “There should be children playing. There should be laughing, singing, talking, smoke in the air and the smell of good food cooking.”
Instead, the smell was vile. Jem gripped the staff and brought his other hand up to cover his nose and mouth. It made him want to retch. He glanced at Ann and Tolly. Ann had her back to him and was staring at the lake. Tolly was watching Mingan.
“Where are they?” Mingan’s voice was barely audible as he continued speaking in a language none of them understood. Jem made a hasty count of the huts – there were over thirty. He could see that once they had been fine dwellings, expertly crafted from branches, packed with moss and covered by stretched hide. Each house was twelve yards or so in length and about six yards wide and they were all built to face the same direction – the lake.
“Look!” Ann pointed at the lake. Jem’s neck prickled. The water was frozen into a series of jagged black furrows as if the rippling waves had been trapped in a single moment.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t know.” Her small voice came from the depths of the silver fur hood. “But I can feel that something terrible has happened here.”
Jem nodded. “The smell? It’s … it’s like …”
“Death.” Tolly came to stand next to them. Cleo poked her head from beneath his brown fur hood. Even she was silent.
A single long, low howl split the air. They all spun around to see Mingan kneeling on the soiled ice at the centre of the village. He thumped the ground and threw back his head. The grey fur hood slipped to his shoulders and he howled again.
Moments later, answering calls came from somewhere high above. A chorus of misery rang out across the valley – Mingan’s wolf brothers were taking up his cry. The man listened now, head bowed.
There was a crackling, rustling sound from somewhere close by. Jem twisted about swiftly, brandishing the staff. He half expected to see a wolf, but instead a stooping fur-clad figure emerged from the longhouse nearest to the lake. The figure shuffled forward onto the grimy snow, a quiver full of arrows tied at the waist and a curved wooden bow slung over one shoulder.
Jem tightened his grip on Cazalon’s staff. Mingan had told him they’d be safe here. This felt far from it.
The figure paused and tilted its head to one side. Jem knew that somewhere in the depths of the fur, eyes were scanning the three of them. He saw a gnarled hand move slowly towards the arrows. The person turned towards Mingan and suddenly froze. A parched voice called out a single word in a strange language.
Mingan scrambled to his feet as the stooping figure took another step forward and threw back its hood. It was an old woman with a rope of plaited grey hair and nut-brown skin covered in lines.
She spoke again to Mingan – a single cracked word – and he ran to her, enclosing her almost completely in the folds of his cloak. The old woman spoke rapidly and reached up to touch the scars on his face.
Mingan glanced at the children as the old woman continued to speak. He must have seen their bewilderment.
“She is my mother. This is my mother, Nadie.”
Jem took another sip from the horn bowl. The meaty broth tasted better than anything he had eaten in a long while. After all those days on the ship with nothing but crumbled, maggot-riddled biscuits, he had almost forgotten what it felt like to have hot food in his belly. He could feel the warmth of it tingling through every limb.
Nadie’s longhouse was lined with furs. A fire burned in a little stone hearth at the centre – the smoke curling up and out through an opening in the low-arched roof. Unlike the foul air outside, the comfortable dwelling smelled of herbs. The warm, spiced scent from Nadie’s bone pipe reminded Jem of home.
Home!
He thought about his mother and swallowed hard. A lump of meat seemed to be caught in his throat. He looked up to blink the smoke from his eyes.
After they had entered the longhouse, Mingan and Nadie had exchanged a torrent of words. Their fast, guttural speech was completely impenetrable to the children – apart from one word that Nadie repeated again and again: Witiko.
Now Mingan’s face was set in a grim mask as he stared silently into the hearth. Ann sat directly opposite Jem, her silver-white hair flowing loosely about her shoulders. No wonder Mingan called her
Moon Child.
Tolly put down his bowl and let Cleo lick a dab of stew from the fingers of his good hand. “What’s happened here, Mingan? What has Nadie told you?”
The weren had been silent while they ate, choosing not to take a bowl himself, but now he sighed and began to speak. As he did, Jem noticed he didn’t take his eyes from the fire, as if he could see the story Nadie had told burning there.
“Four moons ago he came from the north – from the far north – and immediately my people knew him for a powerful shaman. He only ever came at night. They never saw his face, but they heard his voice and it seemed like a song to them. His cloak was made of thousands of pale feathers, so they called him White Crow.
“Just before he appeared in the valley, many of our children were struck by a sickness. They could not rise from their beds, they could not speak, they could not eat.”
“Just like Trevanion’s daughter!” Jem shuffled closer to the hearth so that he could catch every word.
Mingan nodded and his plaits clattered. “The people were frightened, but White Crow told the elders that he could cure our children. He said there would be a high price and asked if they were prepared to pay it. The elders believed we could meet any demand, for our currency is not like yours. We trade in meat and furs, spears and arrows. Our village was rich. Game is …” Mingan paused and corrected himself. “Game was abundant here. Our stores were filled and ready for the snow season.
“White Crow gave them a powder – a black powder – to be mixed with water from the lake and given to the afflicted children to drink.
“Within two days they were well again. The elders were so joyful, they offered to double whatever White Crow asked for.”
A thought ran through Jem’s mind. White Crow – why was that name familiar?
Mingan continued, “The shaman told the elders he needed time to decide a fair price. He said that he would come to the village in good time to name it. That was when it began.”
“When what began?” Jem asked when Mingan fell silent.
Mingan breathed deeply. “It began with the birds. For three mornings when the people woke, they found dead, mutilated bodies of birds scattered at the edge of the lake. Next, small creatures from the forest were found hidden about the village – their throats torn, their entrails spilling from long wounds in their sides.” Mingan gestured at Nadie. A tear slid down her wrinkled cheek. “My mother says that was when the silence came. No birds sing here any more.
“Then it was the dogs. Three good hunting hounds went missing on the same night. At first their owners thought they had been stolen by a jealous neighbour, but then the body of one of the dogs was found hidden in the trees at the edge of the lake. It had been torn apart.”
“But could it have been attacked by another animal? One of the other dogs, or perhaps a wolf?” Jem regretted the word as soon as it left his lips, but if Mingan was insulted he didn’t show it. Instead he turned his eyes on Jem and smiled grimly.
“There is not an animal alive able to dissect a body with the skill of a surgeon. The dog’s tongue, heart, liver and lungs were gone and part of his skin had been removed – a perfect square was cut from his back.”
Jem’s blood froze. He remembered the experiments Cazalon had conducted on the pitiful creatures in Malfurneaux Place. On the far side of the fire Tolly sat up very straight and huddled Cleo to his side.
“But the dog was not the worst.” Mingan took up the trailing end of one of his plaits and turned a little white skull between his fingers. “You must understand, we are a hunting people, but we only take what is necessary and we give thanks for it. These little creatures …” he rested the plait across his palm so that the skull knotted into it was cradled in the dip in the middle, “had made the great journey long before I found them. I did not kill them. I respected their earthly remains and made them a part of me. It is powerful magic.”
“Like a protection charm?” Ann asked.
“Yes, Moon Child. I ask the spirits of these creatures to protect me.”
Tolly leaned forward. “What did you mean, ‘the dog was not the worst’?”
Mingan let the plait slip from his palm. “One of the young hunters went out alone. When he did not return that night his mother was not worried, but when two days had passed and there was still no word, she asked the other young hunters to search for him. Just before nightfall they found his body. It was like the dog.”
He shuddered. “The next evening the shaman came again to the village. He named his price and at last the elders realised what they had done. White Crow demanded that the first-born child of every family should be sent to his longhouse on the far side of the lake. It did not matter if the children were male or female as long as they had seen no more than thirteen summers. One was to be delivered to him every three days until each family capable of making such a sacrifice had paid. Then, and only then, would he leave my people in peace. That was when they understood that the Witiko walked among them.”
“Witiko?” Jem looked from Mingan to Nadie. “I heard you say that word over and over again. What is it?”
Mingan closed his eyes. “One who walks between the worlds. He hunts by night and feeds on the flesh of the living and the dead. He is the taker of souls. Even when he has fed he continues to destroy for pleasure. The story has been told by mothers to their children down many generations.”
Mingan’s eyes snapped open again. “But now I know it is not a story.”
“What did they do about the payment, Mingan?” Ann’s face was as white as her hair.
“The young hunters wanted to go to burn his longhouse to the ground and destroy him, but my father, Annawan, the chief and wise man of our elders, said it would only bring destruction upon all. Instead, he made careful plans for every man, woman and child in the village to leave. We are a nomadic people and this is our winter place. There are other hidden places, though, high in the mountains. At this time of year the living there will be harsh, but the choice was easy to make. In the course of a single day, one by one my people melted into the forest. Nadie has not seen them since. She believes they have escaped, that they are safe. But Annawan knew that a great sacrifice must still be made in order to ensure their safety. So when all had gone, he went to the Witiko to offer himself, wisest of all, in place of the children. My mother says that was the day the lake died.”
“Why didn’t your mother go with the others?” Jem looked at Nadie. The old woman was rocking back and forth, both hands folded at her chest.
“Because she is waiting for my father to return.”
“But how does she know he is …” Jem faltered.
“Alive?” Mingan finished for him. He said something to Nadie. She opened the hand she held so close to her chest, revealing a polished black oval, smooth and rounded as a pebble that has lain in a stream. It was strung upon a leather thong around her neck.
“It is the custom for our people to swap love tokens when they are young. They wear them for the rest of their lives together. The tokens are always the same – an oval carved from specially chosen wood. It is meant to be a heart. This is the heart my father gave to her. She knows he is alive because her heart has not broken.”
“But why hasn’t the Witiko taken her too?”
“She believes it is because he wants to punish her for what my father did. Many times now she has waited at night by the shores of the lake, hoping that the Witiko would take her to Annawan. She has even watched him hunt – but he would not come near.”
“So why didn’t she go to the longhouse to find him?” Jem bit his tongue as he caught sight of Ann’s expression. “I … I don’t mean to be rude but …”
Mingan smiled sadly. “You are right to question. My father made her promise never to follow him there, made her swear an oath on her wooden heart. She cannot break that vow.” He made a deep throaty noise like a growl. “But I have made no such promise.
“My mother says that by night he still hunts, but he c
an only move in the darkness. Since the deep snows have come he has exchanged his cape of feathers for a patchwork of furs. His hunger is insatiable. Each morning the land around the lake is spattered with fresh trails of blood and strewn with animal guts. But he is powerless by day. That is our protection.”
“Protection!” Tolly laughed bitterly. “I don’t call leading us to a village haunted by a creature that feeds on human flesh ‘protection’. You told us we’d be safe here!” He turned to Jem. “One who walks between the worlds – does that remind you of anything?”
Jem stared blankly. There was something about those words … Of course! It was very like something Tolly had said after using Cazalon’s staff that first time in Ann’s caravan. Beware the man of shadows. He who walks between the worlds.
Tolly’s eyes bored into Jem’s. “There’s only one person I can think of who walks between the worlds, and Mingan’s brought us straight to him. The mutilated animals, the black medicine … Cazalon is White Crow. He is the Witiko – he must be – and we’ve brought Ann to his door.”
Jem’s heart bucked as he thought about the peculiar letters singed into the wall of the Fortuna’s hold: WHITC RW. Now he knew what they meant.
Tolly sprang to his feet. “Have you been working with Cazalon all along, Mingan?”
Mingan frowned. “I don’t understand. My only wish was to help you.” He bowed his head and cupped his forehead. “I did not mean to bring you to a place of danger. Nor you, little sister, Moon Child.”
“There you go again. Moon Child! Her name is Ann.” Tolly almost spat the words. “And she is not your sister.”
“Tolly!” Ann pushed her hair back from her shoulders. “If it wasn’t for Mingan, who knows what would have happened to me – and to you two – back at Port Melas! He saved our lives.”