Tower of Thorns

by Juliet Marillier

  This alarming tale was consistent with what Geiléis had told us about the curse. “But,” I said, “that story might have nothing to do with the fey, real or imagined. The swineherd might simply have slipped and fallen into the river.” But, of course, that was not the whole story. The cold does not drive people mad. And if he had fallen in by accident, why hadn’t he simply waded to the bank? “Was the man injured? Did he suffer physical damage? Where is he now?”

  “With his family, in one of the settlements. He had no visible wounds; the hurt was within. He requires constant care. Without that he would do harm to himself or to others.”

  After that, I could find nothing else to say until the two of us were back in the courtyard. My services as a wise woman, useful as they might be for dressing wounds and setting broken bones and lancing boils, would be next to useless in such a case. I might perhaps offer tonics or sleeping drafts for the other family members, but the victim himself would likely be beyond any healer’s help. Did those wee folk really possess the ability to lead folk astray to the point of driving them permanently crazy? I recalled various old tales in which that was exactly what happened. She left her home behind and went dancing off over the hills, and if she hasn’t come home yet she’s dancing still. Yet that little woman had seemed full of common sense.

  “Thank you for walking back with me, Onchú,” I said. “I’m sorry if I haven’t seemed to take due heed of the warnings. I do weigh the odds up carefully. Always.” That was perhaps not entirely true; where Mathuin of Laois was concerned, I had more than once let my desire for justice outweigh my common sense. “I will have to take some risks if I’m to find a solution to this. Midsummer Eve is getting closer all the time.”

  “We are always happy to accompany you, Mistress Blackthorn. Our duties here are hardly onerous; the men are glad of something to occupy their time.”

  “Thank you, Onchú. Some things, a wise woman must do alone.”

  • • •

  Geiléis was up and waiting for me in the dining chamber. That did not surprise me. Nor did the displeased expression on her face.

  “You went out on your own,” she said.

  “And here I am, back again.” I would not allow her to conduct an interrogation as if I were a wrongdoer. I’d had enough of that to last me a lifetime.

  “If Onchú had not gone to fetch you, you might be wandering in the forest still, unable to find your way. Or drowning in the Bann. Do you think yourself indestructible?”

  That made me smile. “I am not so much of a fool. But I know how to calculate risks. If you want the ritual to have some chance of working, you must let me do it in the way most likely to achieve that.” I sat down at the table. Senach appeared from nowhere with a tray of refreshments, which he set down noiselessly before departing. “Now,” I said briskly, “we should set a day and time for this observance. Far enough ahead for word to go out to the settlements and for folk to make their way here. But not too far ahead.” Gathering folk together was important. It would give me the opportunity to talk to them. I could not believe that none of them knew the story of the monster in the tower. “Five days? Six?”

  “Six,” Geiléis said. “Some folk have a long way to travel.”

  “Dawn or dusk?”

  “Ah,” said Geiléis. “I understand your argument on that point, but it can be neither. Both dawn and dusk would require me to accommodate everyone here for a night. People simply would not come. So close to the tower, right in the woods . . . They might be prepared to tolerate that for the duration of the ritual, but not in the dark, even if they were housed in the barn. This place terrifies them. Your ritual would be attended only by the members of my household.”

  A pox on it! I wondered sometimes if she had any belief in me at all. “You’re telling me I need to do it by day, with the screaming drowning out every word I say.”

  “Why not conduct the ritual farther from the tower, where the sound is not so overwhelming? In a grazing field, perhaps, beyond the forest’s edge? A place from which the tower is visible; somewhere with sufficient space for a large number of folk to gather. I’m sure the men could help you find a suitable spot. If you are not too tired, you could ride out this afternoon to do so.” When I did not reply, she added, “I am quite sure the local people would prefer that. If you want them to attend in numbers, offering a spot closer to home and farther from the tower will help.”

  I could hardly object to this; it made sense. Since I did not think the ritual would work anyway, I could not argue that it was best conducted a stone’s throw from the tower, though my instincts told me that was where it should be performed. I was hardly prepared to admit, even to myself, that I wanted to do it down in the woods, where the little folk could see and hear. Where the creature in the tower might catch a consoling word or two, a scent of healing herbs, a glimpse of sacred fire, even as it wailed its despair over the forest. “Very well,” I said. “Let’s hope the weather stays dry for six days. Maybe there will be time this afternoon, after we’ve found this spot, to ride on to the nearest settlement and start spreading the word.”

  “You must not exhaust yourself, Blackthorn.” She was all smiles now. “Let me pour you some ale.”

  “Thank you. I’m not exhausted. Just keen to get on with what has to be done. At this rate, Midsummer Eve will be here before we know it.”

  “Believe me, I understand the urgency all too well. It would save time, you realize, if my men took the message of invitation out to the community, leaving you to get on with your preparations?” Geiléis glanced at my herb-filled basket, which I had set on a chest, and I remembered belatedly that I’d intended to spend the day making salves, lotions and other cures to take with me when I visited the local folk. I frowned, eyeing the basket. Was that a tiny bunch of true love’s tears tucked in the corner next to the sage? Whoever had picked that, it certainly hadn’t been me.

  “Mm,” I said absently, wondering what it was the little folk of Bann were trying to tell Grim and me. Our king is captive in the thorn. So, they wanted me to free him? “You’re right,” I said. “Today all I need to do is ride to see this field and decide if it’s suitable. I will ask Onchú to arrange an escort. But not right now—I have some work to do first.”

  Back in my quarters I changed my shoes, hung up my cloak and unpacked the basket. And yes—among the contents was a neat bunch of true love’s tears, tied up with a green thread. Another message, no doubt. It might as well have been a letter written in Armorican, for all the sense I could make of it.

  22

  Grim

  Got to do it. Can’t put it off any longer. Got to be a man; got to be the man I should be. Funny thing is, if I told her the story, she’d say, It’s all right, Grim; you needn’t go. She’d understand. I know that. But I can’t tell her. Can’t tell anyone. It’s my worst thing, my dark thing, like hers is Cass and Brennan burning and her not being able to reach them. If I told the story out loud, I’d break into so many bits even Blackthorn wouldn’t be able to put me together again.

  Best not think too much. Shove my feet into my boots, grab my weapons, out the door and off up the hill. Don’t want an escort. Don’t want anyone seeing me like this. Cold and shaky, bringing up my breakfast under a bush, then bringing up bile and water, then retching on an empty stomach like my whole guts are going to burst out. As if I had poison in me. Which in a way I do. Made my own poison, haven’t I?

  I reach the spot where I turned back last time. Still can’t remember much of the story Blackthorn was telling, the clurichaun story. From what she said, I spoiled that tale for her, turned it dark and bloody. Clurichauns with axes chopping at each other. Folk screaming in terror. Folk running, running. Only they weren’t quick enough, and they died. All dead. Even Brother Galen. And all he wanted was to save his book . . .

  Can’t make my feet move forward. Can’t take that one step farther. St. Olcan’s i
s up ahead somewhere, not far at all. Wouldn’t take much effort to get there. No need to tell them about any of it. Just walk in and say, Come to do the thatching. Pity I can’t get in there while they’re all out, finish the job, go away before they come back. But they’re monks. Monks live by a pattern. Know that pattern like the back of my hand. Over the monster’s miserable voice I hear a bell now, and I know it’s the bell for Terce. Don’t need to be there to see them, in my mind, walking along the path to the chapel, two and two, faces all peaceful in the morning sun. Just think about that. Don’t think about what came after. Take another step, you coward. Take another step, you failure. Take another step, Bonehead. Take a step for every one of them that fell in his blood because you couldn’t save him, because you weren’t strong enough, weren’t brave enough, weren’t good enough. Because you weren’t enough, never were, never will be. Wretched apology for a man. Mathuin was right to lock you away. What good did you ever do in your life? What good could you ever be to anyone?

  I collapse under a tree. Not being sick now. Just sobbing like a child in trouble. Big lump of a man, all tears. What a sight. No wee fellow popping out to help me this time. No Blackthorn making a brew, then sitting down to drink it with me, and not saying a thing until I’m ready to hear it. Nobody but the big man and the woods and, not so far away, the bell that’s stopped ringing. And the monster; it’s always there. That creature’s even sorrier and sadder than me. Stuck in there, it can’t do what I’m doing, which is not a lot when you think about it. Go to St. Olcan’s, fix a roof, do the brothers a good turn. Folk in these parts could do with a bit of help. Should be easy. Would be easy, if the past wasn’t on my shoulders, weighing me down. Would be easy if I wasn’t near shitting myself in terror.

  They’re singing now. Wonder if the monster can hear it? My bet is, all it can hear is its own wretched voice. Morrigan’s curse, what a life!

  I try to hear words in that noise. Keep thinking maybe it can talk, or could, but something’s getting in the way. There was a fellow like that in Mathuin’s hellhole for a while. A short while. They burned him, trying to get something out of him. Burned his face half off. Stupid way to try to make someone talk. After they did it, all that came out was a horrible sort of gargling noise. Crazy thing was, he’d have wanted to talk then. He’d have told them whatever it was just to make the pain stop. But he couldn’t. Not anymore. Died the next day. They never got a healer for him. Blackthorn—Lady, she was back then—begged them to let her out for a bit so she could tend to him, ease the pain. Guards just laughed at her. We listened to him dying, all that night and into the morning. Said a few prayers, this and that, though none of us was godly folk. Blackthorn told a story. We sang for a while, until the guards shut us up with buckets of water. Thing is, this monster’s voice sounds a bit like that dying man’s did. Like its mouth’s injured, or its throat. Not burned, like him, or it’d be dead. But damaged, or odd-shaped, or covered up with something. Teeth knocked out, tongue sliced off. Doesn’t bear thinking about. But I do. Think about it, I mean. Wondering, like I did before, if the groans and howls and wails and sobs add up to, Save me! Or, Make it stop! Or even, Kill me! That’s what the fellow with the burned face was trying to say. We all thought the same. That’s how it goes when they torture you. First you’re quiet. You’re strong. You keep your promises to yourself: I will be a man. I will not scream. I will not tell my secrets. Then the pain gets too much, and you can’t keep quiet anymore, so you scream and curse and shout. But you still don’t tell them what they want to know, so they throw you back in your cell to wait for next time. So it goes on. When they’re done, when you’re lying there with smashed knees and broken fingers and bruises all over or worse, there’s one thing you want. For the pain to stop. After the second time or the third, it hurts so much you want to die. Once you’re dead the pain stops and never comes back. No words, but we all knew the burned man was calling out, Kill me! For god’s sake kill me! Would have, if I could have. Poor bastard.

  “You poor bastard,” I mutter, in the silence while the monster grabs a breath. “You poor, poor bastard.” Wonder if I’m right? Wonder if the creature in the tower would yell out words if it could? Crazy idea, now I think about it. What would I know about anything anyway?

  Make myself get up. Stand on the path. Feet, go. Go that way. Ahead for St. Olcan’s, you win the battle. Back for Geiléis’s house, you lose. You fail. I think about the burned man screaming. I think about the monster, and how lonely it must be up there, shut in with its hurts. How does it keep going? How does it stay alive? I think how lucky I am not to be them; how lucky I am that in the stink and filth and misery of Mathuin’s lockup I found Blackthorn. Why am I feeling sorry for myself? She asked me to do this, and I’m going to do it.

  The feet walk on. I make myself take slow, deep breaths. Don’t want to turn up on these monks’ doorstep a weeping wreck. Need to tell them who I am, why I’ve come. Through another patch of woodland, pretty in the sun though I hardly see it. Keep going. Keep walking.

  The monastery’s in sight; wattle and mud buildings with thatched roofs, all of it showing wear and tear. Straw dark with mold. Wind damage. Looks as if they need a man to lay drystone as well as a man who can thatch. I come closer. There’s a stone tower with a bell; there’s a pigeon loft near what looks like a barn. A yard with chickens scratching about. Hen coop down the end. Big vegetable garden, all very tidy. Looks as if the brothers work hard in it. Feel bile rising in my throat. Push back the memories, down deep into the dark. Got to keep walking on. Blackthorn. Doing this for Blackthorn.

  I’m at the garden wall. Nobody about. All in the chapel. Singing coming from over at the far side, where the bell tower stands. Haven’t set foot in a chapel since the day it happened. What god would want me?

  Walk on. Down the path. Hands itching for a spade or fork; nose twitching with all the smells: lavender, rosemary, mint, parsley, basil, the rich scent of compost that’s ready to go in the ground. I could do it. I could help them. I could give them more time for their praying and singing, their reading and writing, their bright paintings of creatures and saints and strange beings. I could do that. I’ve done it before. Wouldn’t ask, though. Couldn’t. What happened then might happen all over again. Could be I bring my own curse with me.

  Want to turn back. Want to run away. Walk on. Try to unclench my teeth. Try to slow the galloping warhorse in my chest. Try to breathe. Here for the thatching, that’s all. Go and look at the roof. And wait.

  Easy to spot the scriptorium. Roof’s a sorry sight, holes here and there with rough patching that won’t keep out more than a light shower. Thatching’s been done well but it’s old. Too old to do its job anymore. Long past the time for replacing. Not a high building; ordinary ladder will do. And not so big either. At a pinch, if it stays fine, I could do it on my own by midsummer, even with the creatures on top. Always do those. Maybe it keeps a place safe and maybe that’s only a fancy. Always do them anyway. Looking up at the old roof, I can see them now in my mind: dove at this end, salmon at the far end, and in the middle maybe raven and cat. In that old story of the flood, Noah sent a raven and then a dove. Fish, that’s a sign for Christians. Cat because monks like cats. And I’m back there straightaway, seeing Brother Galen with Bathsheba on his knee, an old scholar with snow-white hair, a cat with fur as dark as night. Brother Galen telling a story, me listening, as still as a stone so I don’t miss a word. Bathsheba purring like a small thunderstorm. On the day, when it happened, when I came to myself and stumbled around looking, looking to see if any of them had got away, if any of them were still alive, the last one I found was Bathsheba. Even she was dead. When I stopped howling, when I was able to think again, the first thing I thought was that the man who took her on would have walked away with scratches all over. He’d crushed her head with his boot. He’d stolen Brother Galen’s book for its jeweled covers. I thought of that man by his campfire, tearing up the pages and feeding th
em into the flames. One by one, the stories, the lovely little pictures. A cat with wings, gone. An owl riding a dragon, gone. Men with the faces of foxes and badgers, all in a line, dancing. Gone. I thought of that warrior, a Norseman, and knew he wouldn’t remember killing an old man and a cat. For him, for all of them, it was just another raid. They wouldn’t remember me, fighting them off until someone knocked me out cold and I couldn’t fight anymore. They wouldn’t carry it with them the way I do. If they did, how could they go on?

  Curses! The bell’s ringing again, and they’re coming out. Got tears all down my face, can’t help myself. One of the brothers spots me and walks over. Tall fellow, dark hair. He’s going to ask what I thought I was doing, walking right in without a by-your-leave, and I’ll have no words. Only sobs, like the monster in the tower.

  “Come,” the monk says, pointing to a bench. It’s in a nice spot, under the shade of a plum tree that’ll have a good crop in autumn. “Sit with me awhile. You look disturbed. If you wish, tell me what is troubling you.” Then, as we sit down, “I am Brother Fergal. I look after the garden. And if I may hazard a guess, you are the man with a talent for thatching. Staying in the household of the Lady of Bann.”

  I fish out a handkerchief and dry my eyes. “How did you know?” My voice is a bit of a croak, but not too bad.

  Brother Fergal smiles. A good smile, warms up his face, no tricks in it. I try not to see him with his head cloven in two, blood and brains spattered everywhere. “There are no other men in this district of quite your size,” he says. “And I noticed you were studying our scriptorium roof. We would be most grateful if you could help us. You’d be well paid for your labors.”