Tower of Thorns

by Juliet Marillier

  “And that, I imagine, is why you and your brethren, and your animals, are not affected by it in the way others in the district are,” I said, thinking to give Grim what time he needed to recover himself. “Lady Geiléis told us your cows are still producing healthy calves. And it seems your work continues undisturbed.”

  “The power of prayer is great,” said Brother Dufach. “God holds us in his hand. That is not to say this does not try us hard. We did not invite visitors this summer, and will not do so again until the creature is gone. As a result, our work does not progress as it used to. Our scholars are looking forward very much to spending time with you, Master Flannan.” A pause. “Forgive me, Mistress Blackthorn, but I had heard . . . I had heard that Lady Geiléis brought you here to . . . deal with the creature. Is that true?”

  “Something like that, Brother Dufach. Though if your God has not managed to rid the district of the scourge, who am I to attempt such a feat? Let’s just say I’m here to find out as much as I can about the creature and why it does what it does. Shall we walk on?”

  Grim had turned to face me. There was a little more color in his cheeks. Still, he was plainly not himself. Perhaps he’d benefit from a rest at the monastery, time away from the constant crying. It was enough to bring the sunniest of folk to tears.

  “How about a tale?” said Grim, working hard to make his voice steady. “Got one for a day like this?”

  “A good idea, if Brother Dufach has no objection.” For the life of me I couldn’t think of anything appropriate, though I had a rich fund of tales. Any story that came immediately to mind was full of loss, heartbreak, failure. Like my own life.

  “Clurichauns,” murmured Grim.

  “Clurichauns, very well. You might have to help me.” I glanced from the shivering Grim to Flannan, who wore a puzzled smile, to Brother Dufach. The monk was serene, waiting patiently for us to go on. “And we should keep walking as I tell it. Long ago and far away there lived two tribes of clurichauns . . .”

  It felt distinctly odd to tell a tale of Otherworldly matters to a party containing a Christian monk. As we made our way through the woods, I had the clurichaun tribes fall out over the ownership of a certain pony. “Such a fine creature had never been seen throughout the land of Erin,” I said. “Snowdrop was her name, and such was the dazzling whiteness of her pelt that when she passed by, folk thought the moon herself had come down from the sky to visit the earth in the guise of a creature.

  “Each of the clurichaun kings—there were two tribes, the green and the blue—wanted Snowdrop as a gift for his daughter. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that they might have got together to discuss the matter and reach some kind of agreement to share the creature. But no; clurichauns being what they are, there was no compromise to be made. There was only one way to settle the matter: war.”

  “These clurichauns,” said Brother Dufach, sounding not the least disturbed by the story, only interested, “they are combative in their very nature, then?”

  “Did your parents not tell you tales like this when you were a lad?” I asked him. Monks must start their lives as ordinary boys, with ordinary lives. As did, say, druids. Even as I thought this, memories of my own childhood came back, memories I had long ago shut away. I made sure I did not meet Flannan’s eye, though I could tell he was looking at me.

  “I suppose they did, Mistress Blackthorn, but not quite in the manner you do. You have a gift for bringing the story to life.”

  “So far, so good,” I said, somewhat surprised. “Battle scenes are not really my strong point. If I were telling this in a prince’s hall to entertain the crowd, at this stage I’d ask if anyone wanted to help.”

  “I doubt if any of us could match you,” said Flannan.

  “Fought from daybreak to nightfall.” Grim spoke up, surprising me. He still looked shaken and pallid; I wondered how he was managing to walk on, let alone tell the story as he went. “Blood all over the woodland; children wailing, old folk wringing their hands, wives and sweethearts yelling encouragement, if they weren’t out fighting alongside their men. Wise women of the blue and green tribes watching on, side by side, thinking they’d be lucky if anyone was left at the end to be patched up. Then into the middle of it all comes Snowdrop the white pony. Wondering what the fuss is about.” He glanced at me. “Could end in sorrow for all of them. Or not. Better if you finish off.”

  Yes; this could indeed be fashioned into a cautionary tale, the beautiful pony killed on the battlefield through no fault of her own, and half the clurichauns slain for no good reason. And, of course, the bag of silver wasted. But, clurichauns being what they were, if I ended it that way I could not say they had learned their lesson.

  “The king of the blue tribe did not see Snowdrop coming,” I said, “and slashed out with his sword—a weapon of sharpened oak wood, and very fine—just as she passed by. There was a sharp scream from the pony, and sharper ones from the two princesses, who rushed onto the battlefield heedless of danger. ‘Retreat!’ yelled the blue king, and ‘Lay down your arms!’ shouted the green king, as their daughters pushed a way through the melee to the mad-eyed animal. One snatched the halter; the other grabbed hold of Snowdrop’s mane.”

  Before I could draw the tale to a close by accounting how the warriors obeyed their leaders’ commands, the battle ceased, the horse suffered only a scratch and the two girls became fast friends, Grim spoke again.

  “Pony was hurt and scared. Reared up. Hoof struck one girl on the brow and she fell to the ground. ‘My daughter!’ screamed the green king. ‘Your accursed creature has killed my daughter!’ Threw back his head and howled like a banshee. Leaped forward, knife in hand. Slit Snowdrop’s throat. Blood spurted out. The princess’s white gown turned red.”

  “Grim,” I said quietly. We had stopped walking, the four of us. Grim’s face was like a death mask; he was no longer with us, but somewhere else entirely.

  “Fighters went mad all at once. Like they were deaf and blind. Like they’d forgotten everything but the weapons in their hands and the enemy waiting to be killed. So it went on, men falling, maimed, hurt, dying, dead. Screaming. Such screaming. On and on. Couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t save them. Not strong enough—”

  “Grim! Stop!”

  He was as white as chalk, his eyes gazing on the unspeakable. If I slapped his cheek to bring him out of the trance I risked being hurt; he would not know who I was. Flannan took a step forward as if to lay hands on him.

  “No, Flannan.” I kept my voice soft and calm, though my heart was thumping. “Grim, I’m getting tired. I want to go back now. You come with me; Brother Dufach will take Flannan on to St. Olcan’s.”

  “But—” began Flannan.

  “Come on, Grim.” I took a step closer, praying that he wouldn’t turn on me. “Best if we head for home now. Grim?” I laid a cautious hand on his arm.

  He started as if struck, and dashed my hand away with such violence that both Flannan and Dufach protested, moving toward us.

  “No!” I snapped.

  Grim rubbed a hand over his face, blinked a few times. “What? What did I . . . ?”

  “We were just telling a tale to pass the time,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “But the story’s finished now. I’d like to go home.”

  “Are you sure—” Brother Dufach fell silent as I gave him a slight shake of the head.

  “Said something wrong,” Grim muttered. “Didn’t I? Did something bad.” And without a further word, he turned his back and strode away from us. At least he was heading in the direction of Geiléis’s house.

  “I’d best go.” I attempted a calm tone. “He’s not well. Flannan, good luck with your studies. Brother Dufach, thank you for your forbearance.”

  “He seemed quite—are you sure you’ll be all right on your own?” Flannan protested. “He looked as if he might . . .”

  “The effect of
the curse,” said Brother Dufach quietly. “I’ve seen it before. It can turn a man’s thoughts down dark pathways. It can show him the worst of himself. Will you be safe, Mistress Blackthorn?”

  “I’d better come back with you,” Flannan said in the manner of a man who has decided to take charge.

  “You’d better not.” I gave up pretending to be calm. “I’ll be safer without you. I understand this; you don’t.”

  “Then I will walk down tomorrow. Or this afternoon. I need to know you are safe.”

  “Just leave it, will you? I have to go.”

  Flannan said nothing more, but I saw a question on his face, one I had no wish to think about. You’re only here to cover your tracks before we head south. Why does any of this matter?

  I turned my back and walked briskly after Grim. Looked over my shoulder once, twice, three times, until Flannan and the monk were out of sight. Then picked up my skirt and ran.

  16

  Grim

  Can’t seem to catch a breath. Eyes wet, nose running, feel like a child who’s been hit. Noise won’t go away. I put my fingers in my ears but I still hear it. Head down on my knees, arms up over my head, the words, the words, try the words . . . in medio umbræ mortis . . . non temp . . . non timb . . . non timebo mala . . . Shadow of death’s over me. All around me. Creeping inside me. Words seeping away, all away . . . Non timebo. Non timebo mala . . . I fear no evil. A lie. A big lie. Fear’s got its teeth sunk deep in me.

  I’m curled up tight against a fallen tree, fighting to hold on to the words. Someone touches my shoulder and my heart near bursts out of my chest. I yelp like a stuck pig.

  A little hand reaches out toward me, with a little cup in it. “Drink,” someone says in a tiny voice. “Feel better.” My jaw dropped; my eyes are most likely out on stalks. Thing’s no higher than my knee. Hooded cloak all of fur. Skinny, knobbly fingers. Long nose; eyes like black currants.

  “Drink,” the creature says again. “Friend.”

  Stupid, maybe, but I take the cup and drink what’s in it, which is not much at all, since the thing’s so small, but whatever it is tastes very good and not like anything I know. Stupid, because the creature’s not human, and not animal, and that means . . . Well, it could mean all sorts of things, and some of them are trouble.

  “Better,” says the small one. “Yes?”

  Take a deep breath, and a few more. Try out the bits of myself, since they’re feeling as if they don’t belong together. Stretch arms, then legs. Wipe snot and tears from my wretched face. Think I might be sick again, but no. “Thanks,” I say. Look up and see the hooded one isn’t alone. I’m in some part of the forest, right off the path, in under the trees. Eyes watching from the shadows. Shapes, small ones. Not animals. Not children. “Better, yes.” Not sure if I am, though. Can’t remember what happened. Only Blackthorn looking worried. And a monk. There was the monster. Crying. Still crying.

  “Who are you?” I ask the little fellow. He—I’m guessing it’s a he—looks right at me, and I get a better look at him. Face like a tiny man’s, only not quite right. Eyes too round, nose too long, mouth too wide. Those knobbly fingers, like twigs. Hair under the hood, mossy green. Brown boots, look like bark. No need to ask if he’s fey. Question is, why would one of them help me?

  “Who are you?”

  “Name of Grim. Traveling through. With my friend.”

  “Friend is looking. Searching high and low. Searching up and down. Not finding you anywhere.”

  I get to my feet. Clumsy giant, beside the little one. “Blackthorn—she’s searching for me? Can you show me where?”

  “Better you go home.”

  “We’re staying at the big house, by the ford. Lady Geiléis’s house. Need to find Blackthorn first. Need to hurry.” She might get lost, looking for me. Might wander, the way the lady told us could happen. Folk went missing. Got drowned. Never came home. “Can you show me where you saw her? Please?”

  “Better you go home, you and your friend. Sad place, this. Crying place. All tears.”

  No arguing with that. The monster’s voice is everywhere. Feels like it’s right inside my head. “Please. Will you help me find her?” Have a feeling there are things I should ask. Things Blackthorn would be wanting me to ask. Can’t think straight, though. Did I do something bad? How did I get here?

  “Come,” says the small one. He walks; I follow. The others, the ones under the trees, have melted away. “Not far.”

  But it is far. What have I been doing? Starts to come back; being sick after breakfast, walking up with Flannan and that monk, and then . . . nothing. Only that feeling, the one I get when the red’s come down and I’ve done something bad. But different somehow.

  “Where did you find me?” I ask the little one. “Back there, where you gave me the drink? Or somewhere else?”

  “There. Sad. Lost.”

  We go on walking. Feels like we’re going deeper into the forest. Start to wonder if it’s a trick. In the old tales, you drink or eat fey food and you’re trapped in the Otherworld, can’t ever get back home. Blackthorn would have said no. But I do feel better. Feel like, if I hadn’t drunk whatever it was, I’d be going right down in the dark.

  More walking. Uphill, downhill. In between rocks, some places a squeeze for me. Makes me wonder what would happen if I got stuck. Under bushes. Across a stream. I do it in a long stride. Little fellow jumps. Like a cricket. Like he weighs nothing at all.

  “Heard somewhere your kind don’t like giving your names,” I say by way of conversation. “Sorry I asked, before.” That’s what it says in the tales, some of them.

  “Grim,” says the little one. “Not your real name.”

  That shakes me. How could he know anything about me? “It is now.”

  He nods. “My name, too tricky for your kind,” he says.

  I remember a bit more. Blackthorn telling a tale as we walked, something about clurichauns. Don’t think this is a clurichaun, though.

  I’m wondering if the walk’s going to take all day, and worrying about Blackthorn, when we come into a clearing. The little one hasn’t taken me to find her at all. He’s tricked me. He’s led me into a trap . . . or maybe not. I take a proper look around and I see why he’s brought me here. Another tree’s fallen. A dead tree. Not a big one, but big enough. And all along one side of it are small folk like my one, lined up and pushing hard, grunting with effort, but the tree’s not budging an inch. Which is bad because someone’s trapped underneath. “Get me out! Help!” comes the scream, high and shrill, loud enough to cut through the monster’s crying.

  I roll up my sleeves and move forward. The wee folk let go the tree and scatter in fright. Close up, I see a small arm sticking out from under the log. Takes me right back to Mathuin’s lockup and Slammer crushed under a heap of stones. Push that picture down. “Move back,” I say, though they have already. “I’ll do it.”

  Need to be careful. One wrong move and the little one underneath will be crushed to nothing. Surprised it’s not dead already. I squat down, lift quick and clean so one end’s on my shoulder and the other on the ground, pivot the trunk around and lay it down again in a safer spot. Doesn’t take long. Dust off my hands on my trousers. Wish Blackthorn was here. She’d be the one to patch up any injuries, like she did the time I lifted a cart off a fellow. Feels like long ago.

  “My friend,” I said. “Blackthorn. The one I’m trying to find. She’s a healer. She could help you.”

  “No need.” The little man, the one that brought me here, is back beside me. “We can mend. Moving trees, not so easy.”

  Some of the wee folk put the injured one onto a very small stretcher, then carry him off into the forest. Some of them thank me; some nod their heads; some smile. They’re quickly gone. All but the first one.

  “You could have said,” I tell him. “Straightaway, I mean. I’d have been happy to
help.”

  “I find your friend, you lift the tree,” the little man says. “I help, you help.”

  “I would have helped you anyway. But yes, it would be good if you could find Blackthorn.”

  “Not far,” he says. “You will find her. That way.” He points in a direction that feels completely wrong. “Secret,” he says. “All secret. Not a word.”

  “I don’t keep secrets from Blackthorn,” I say. “And what’s this you’ll find her? Didn’t you say you’d—”

  Then I hear her voice. And the little fellow’s right—she’s not far off. “Grim!” she’s calling. “Grim, where are you, you foolish big man?”

  “Here!” I yell. Almost before the word’s left my mouth, the wee man’s gone. Not bolted; not strolled away; vanished. Like Conmael does when he’s had enough of talk.

  Never mind that. I’m going fast through the undergrowth to find Blackthorn, who’s shouting, “Over here! This way!” Know she’s been worried. Only calls me names like that when I’ve given her a real fright. I come out into a clearing and there she is. Looking upset. Can’t tell if she’s scared or cross or just tired out. Could be all three.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Must’ve wandered off the path. You all right?” Plainly she isn’t. But I can’t wrap my arms around her like I want to. Way she looks, I’d get my head bitten off.

  “Am I all right? You were the one who went rushing off by yourself. You were the one who . . .”

  I wait but she doesn’t finish. “What did I do?” I make myself ask.

  “Gave me a fright. Twice over. You mean you can’t remember what happened?”

  “You tell me.”

  “You were sick after breakfast. We walked up to St. Olcan’s; we told a story on the way; you turned the story into . . . something else. Something that upset you. You bolted into the forest. I made some excuses and came to find you. Only you weren’t so easy to find.” She’s staring at me. Seems to be thinking hard.